Intermission--Pics from Pittsburgh and The Hideaway

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Good Things Are Coming.

I apologize for not posting earlier; but I'm now beginning to map out another short story for you--aren't you excited? It's based on characters at a karoake bar in LA, about whom I scribbled many notes on several coasters (my friend told me that taking pictures would be rude...sigh). AND, I now have a typewriter with which to begin writing that novel.

Isn't she lovely?

Oh, yes. Good Things are Coming.

If Only Tantrums Weren't So Passe

I was outbid on my lovely little Corona typewriter with 5 seconds left on the auction clock. After a few mouseclicks, I learned that an on-line typewriter store bought my typewriter (for $41.00--$1.00 over my bid) to re-sell it for the non-bargain price of $350.

I am sad.

that is all.

Beauty

I have recently rekindled an old love: antique typewriters. I think the machines can belong to that set of most beautiful things I've ever seen. Take, for instance, this lovely little beast from 1936 to your left. Is not one of the most gorgeous things you've ever seen? I'd probably buy it, but sadly, my typewriter collection will have to wait to be built until much later--perhaps then I can happily click $400 over to ebay in exchange for such loveliness, but for now, I will simply froth at the mouth and grab this little beauty (for the bargain price of $25) instead:




I also think Vanilla bicycles are among the most beautiful items to ever catch mine eye. And perhaps one day I may start a VB collection; until then, I have my beautiful Bessie to carry me from A to B.


So, why this post then? Well, I am still learning about myself these days, and I thought my new obsession with typewriters odd--why do I find this little machines so thoroughly attractive? Why do I feel the need to possess so many of them?

I believe that these machines, just like bicycles and tables (with which I also harbor a desirous obsession), hold tremendous potential in such an aesthetically pleasing manner.

Perhaps I might type a novel on that wondrous Remington 5; where might I travel on my beautiful Vanilla? What conversations, loves and heartbreaks might unfold at my table?

Oh, potential. You are so beautiful.

I Never Believed in Santa Clause (or "I Feel Cynical")

It's true. I remember being a youngin' and wondering how all of the other kids could believe in such rubbish. Every year until I was around eight years old, I heard my classmates talking about what Santa would bring them for Christmas, getting excited to sit on Santa's lap and tell him in person what they'd written in the epic letters. I was busy looking in the trunk of the car, the basement, the attic, my dad's church across the parking lot...anywhere my non-Santa parents might have hidden away my presents.

I also remember wishing desperately I could belong to their faith--believing in magic, the Easter Bunny, fairy tales and unicorns. Wanting so terribly to be one of those children, I invented an imaginary friend, a mouse named Alex. I hoped that perhaps once you had created such a thing, like a chia pet, over time it would grow and become more real.

To my great disappointment, I was always painfully aware of Alex's non-existence. But pretending to believe in him made me feel like I belonged. And I realize now that I used this strategy in a great many arenas: Perhaps if I pretend to believe in Jesus, someday I'll feel that spirit moving inside me which struck a great many old ladies around Easter time. Perhaps if I pretend to believe in love, one day I'll feel that magic that seems to strike an increasing number of my friends.

But I haven't yet felt it. Instead, I feel like I'm living in My world and moving through Theirs--those enchanted idiots with secret smiles spreading across their lips as they meet others who've been struck, baptized--other believers.

And still, some part of me still hopes desperately that it does exist, and I'm simply a cynical creature for whom it's not too late. I'll raise my arms and shout ten thousand hallelujahs if only it will one day reveal itself to me, if I can only one day join their kind.

But, really, when's the right time?

I'm sorry--I had started a couple of actual, prosey entries (one of which, dear ttractor, was written as a full-on reply to your "I feel cynical" comment)...but alas, I found this, and just had to wonder, when is the right time to divulge to your date that you're a violent alocholic with herpes?

(from daily dish)

Gest Wants Judge to Void Minnelli Pre-Nup

Music producer David Gest has asked a New York City judge to void the prenuptial agreement he signed with Liza Minnelli because she didn't tell him she was "a violent alcoholic with herpes."

During a court hearing on Friday, Gest's lawyer called for Manhattan Supreme Court Justice Harold Beeler "to set aside the prenuptial agreement" with the singer because "there was substantial nondisclosure of several material issues."

According to court documents, Minnelli accuses Gest of having tried to "poison" her, while Gest alleges she kept her medical condition a secret until well after they were married and had "unprotected sexual relations."

Minnelli's lawyer, Israel Rubin, insists the court documents should have been sealed: "This whole thing is ridiculous."

***

I mean, you want to give the best impression on the first date, right? And then, well, it's just kind of awkward that second date. And then, after you're married, you just kind of figure that the window's passed, and now you have to wait until you get him good and drunk, but then you're the alcoholic, so you're usually the drunk one, and wow, that's a toughy.

And it's not even Thanksgiving

On a day in which my senses feel overwhelmed by the terribly too brightness of this world, my ears full of windchimes and churchbells and sirens and car alarms, an oppressive heat wrapped snuggly about my limbs, I recall a story which makes me rejoice in this onslaught of sensual attacks...

My cousin, born deaf and isolated from the usual social contrivances, experienced the world through books, moving lips and nimble flying fingers, her vision hungry for the communication her ears would not provide. After two decades living in her world and moving through ours, her hearing was surgically restored. I cannot comprehend her existence during those first few months, years, while she learned to interpret this new sensory information, learned to decode the sounds buzzing all around her.

One morning, as we began to prepare a picnic with uncles, aunts, and cousins of all ages, I witnessed her attempts to understand this new world. She was hearing some sound and begged us to tell her its source, its meaning. We were baffled, as none of us heard anything, and wondered if perhaps her ears were failing her...until the youngest cousin, her six-year-old self beaming with secrets we adults had long-forgotten, announced, "It's the wind."

Okay, Story Part XVI: Post-Grand Finale Wrap-Up

It's true. I gave up on the story. In writing the last few chapters of this tale, I felt like I was going through another break-up. Surely this break-up was less painful than the real thing, but somehow, I felt deflated. So, again on the advice of Mr. B-Baltimore (our schlumpy genius friend), I am here at my keyboard in an attempt to properly finish this tale.

In my first turn at a relationship with Sebastian, I was still operating as though suffering and stoicism were required to earn a relationship; further, the success of the relationship was little more than a competition to be won. And I had always won in the past--though there were few prizes I sought, I proudly stacked my trophy case with all of my desired conquests. And once a trophy lost its luster, I simply moved out into the world on a quest for a larger, more dazzling prize. Because I rarely shared much of myself--a few dimensions at most--leaving each relationship was quite easy. True, realizing the trophy on my shelf was not the most perfectly crafted prize I once thought I had held in my hands was frequently painful, but I rarely lingered long.

So, when I failed despite having had suffered and trying to win, I was crushed. And because I never placed this trophy on a shelf, I had little opportunity to investigate it for flaws, cracks, dents and dings. My lingering feelings for Sebastian were, in reality, my feelings for the fantasy Sebastian I had built so long ago.

This last 'relationship' (using that word oh-so-loosely) inadvertently allowed me to investigate that prize--and I learned I had no desire for it. In my final letter to him, I of course did not share any of these thoughts, for I knew that the revelation of my identity would most likely preclude him from receiving them...

While I am sure my letter reads as though I would welcome him back should he 'offer me grace', I can tell you, dear reader, that my heart held no such invitation. In reality, I know that I could never be the dream he had created and with whom he had fallen in love within one week. And surely, he was not falling for me or Emily, but rather, the anonymous stranger whom he was fitting, stuffing, twisting and forcing into his fantasy lover's mold. That so much of her initially fit surely eased this process, but I wonder, if he had really been falling for Emily, would my true identity have mattered? And as for myself, I realized that I had no need for him to substantiate--to verify--my existence.


So though I spoke of grace for myself, I wonder if he, or you, dear reader, understood that the way in which I wrote that letter was an act of grace for him? An act of kindness for the undeserving. Yes, I knew that revealing my identity would make him reel, perhaps drop his stomach like he had once dropped mine, but I also knew that letting him believe Emily existed and that perhaps he had written a wrong word, or had approached too quickly and frightened her away or simply repulsed her in some mysterious way--that this would have been poetic, but unduly cruel justice.

In the end, I strive not to be poetic, but to be graceful. To exist in reality as I do in my fantasy. To trust in my own hand--to hear strength enough in my own voice that I need not shout, for a whisper spreads my truth:

I exist.

Story Part XV: Grand Finale

I had tried three times at this point to gently reject Sebastian, and each attempt had failed. It was time to try something new.

I believe that from this point on, I will just allow you, dear reader, to form your own conclusions from our correspondence.

"Sebastian,
How do I refuse to reply to words soaked in such sincerity? Obviously, I cannot. But if we are to persist, then I must make one humble request of my own: that you begin to see me not as a profile--which seems to me to be a mere distillation of ourselves, suitable for one serving only--but as a more complete person. A human being with the flaws, embarrassments, hang-ups and obsessions I count as my own.

So, in an unprecedented move, I now begin to offer you a more complete self-portrait, so that you can begin to assess the worthiness of all of this.

I have not always been patient. I decided some time ago to begin working on this, and began a series of rituals I continue to this day: I choose the longest line in the grocery store. I look for older people, fists full of coupons, or mothers, hips laden with unruly children. I then stand behind them with my small basketfull of items. I use this time to mentally compile lists of books I would like to read, or what I might paint when I get home. Sometimes, I simply try to think of nothing. This is no small feat. I have become more patient as a result, but now, like a pigeon, I am locked into this ritual whether or not it remains functional.

I have at times been very mean. When I was in academia, I found that I could be quite cutting. This made me feel very uncomfortable, and in an attempt to justify myself, I began to perfect my insults. I realized finally that I had no need nor desire to continue in this vein. I spent six months whispering "shhh" to myself as I walked the campus and city whenever a cruel observation entered my mind. Now, I rarely say a cruel thing about or to others, but can still be heard whispering 'shh' to myself on occasion.

I am a process, and feel confident that, if I do not possess an established garden, I at least can claim a marvelous tool shed. And in my search for that hand of which you spoke so eloquently, I look for inspiration, not validation. The hand that pulls me at times, restrains me at others, and lays comfortably and still when I just need a rest from the marvelous strip club of a world in which we live.

Emily"

***

"Emily,
Thank goodness that we get down to it. You were fast becoming more fog than specter, what with your profile now turned off. And I really wasn't sure how much longer you would indulge my dance by being amused. So thank you for making this a little more tangible. These messages have become surprisingly delicate to write as you continue to respond.

I do read an awful lot into your profile, but I am excited far more by your responses. I don't imagine this is a surprise to you, which doesn't ease my intrigue. So I am coy when I should not be because it is not safe to act otherwise. Or, far more accurately, it is terrifying to capture you only by a thread. And it makes me agonize over your reception of every word I write, such as capture--and thread.

I know you are mean and how easy that is. I know how aware you are of it and how hard that is. I know you seek patience, because it is the healthiest reaction and it requires both acceptance and will. I know you are obsessive because it takes all your determination to contain those spirals of thought, that raw intelligence. And I know the quiet satisfaction of a system like I know the frustration of a maze.

And, Emily (surely it's not a cheap device to use your name), I know my role is not to tell you all this, to sum it up so glibly, but to lift you off the page with imagination and delight.

But I first have to contain my thoughts of everything we might share. What is far more tangible than however dreamy I have made you to be is how acutely aware you are of my meaning, intentional or not. That is something I can be a little more objective about, and, far more importantly, is where I have always known I would find my own inspiration, not just my solace.

If we could walk and talk down these streets far into the night, I would be at your door. I want to know all about your flaws and your beauties, but right now I will patiently smile over your shhh's and hope you will think well of me. I am not sure what else to do from here to show my hand is skilled, whatever the use.

Sebastian

Ask! I want to tell."

***

"Sebastian,
I apologize for my mild disappearing act. I've re-activated my profile for your obsessing pleasure. And now, find a seat, because the liberties I'm about to take with metaphors and imagery are surely illegal in Kansas, Utah and perhaps West Virginia.

Our correspondence and a recent conversation with a friend have my mind working overtime on the nature of relationships and complexity and time and chance. My friend, who has known me almost three years told me that he was always intrigued by me because I presented so many different personas to him. First, he met the Midwestern girl, who laughed at most everything he said. Then, he met the scholar, who spoke with such passion on things considered morbidly boring to most. Then he met the musician, who had such passion for the music of those whose blood she's gladly drink if only to understand a bit of their genius. He kept wondering when he would finally meet the real Emily. And, in an epiphany borne of a drunken stupor, he finally realized that he had met me. I have many dimensions, and I'm always curious how path-dependent relationships can be, the end is almost always a consequence of the beginning, which level we first offer and which we first accept.

I'm trying to say this: You've been extraordinarily lucky to have happened onto this dimension first. Under a mere fistful of sand, you found that spring for which others dug in vain--some for years. They began digging elsewhere, and finding nothing with which to quench their thirst, wandered off to other deserts. But it's been here--I've been here the whole time. I just try so ardently to preserve my carefully constructed world--if I feel judged, or pressed too quickly, or overwhelmed by the infinite possibilities, I quickly retreat and close off from view all of those traits--all of this vulnerability--which you have so easily elicited from me. You are the only person in the world who knows what 'shhh' means when uttered by my lips.

So, I'm asking--what are your most precious, secret systems and mazes? Do you think you've ever started digging in the wrong place and wandered off too quickly? And now that you're here, do you tremble with anticipation every time you bend to take a drink?

I do.

Emily"

***

I know I promised to let our correspondence speak for itself, but I must add a brief note here. I realized after writing this that I had invited him to open up to me, to become vulnerable, and that this would only cause more pain when the conclusion--whatever it was to be--would occur. So, before I received a response, I deleted my profile...I realized this would also hurt him, so through a few bureaucratic turns, re-activated my profile. I then wrote the following email.

***

"Sebastian,
I apologize for disappearing again. I read over my emails and yours, and it just seemed too intense. Maybe I feel comfortable sharing myself with you because not only are we similar, but we are anonymous. And, your writing is beautiful, and perhaps I became carried away with potential, myself. But you don't know me, and I don't know you. For all I know, you're a lesbian who has become frustrated with the lack of interesting lesbian women to date in the Ohio area.

So. Perhaps we could go back to mild amusement?

Emily"

***

" Emily:

Well, you certainly substantiate your claims of unavailability. However effective, it was not altogether necessary to contrast it in succession with a rare admittance of vulnerability. But this is probably the appropriate check and balance to my too my selfishness in grabbing your hand and pulling you into this world of words without considering the pace of your gait. Discretion is always a better strategy than boldness. You are, again, my counterpoint, and, again, that only makes you more attractive. And again, I am twisting to my courting advantage your sincere protestations. I am sorry for that, but should I try to curb them, perhaps you will allow one with a smile now and again.

I have often thought that you might be the workings of a devious and mechanical imagination, capable of catering to my perhaps too transparent blueprint of attraction. And knowing full well such a thing could barely exist, let alone succeed, you are a figment created to show how susceptible I am to the trappings of my own imagination.

Nonetheless, I believe that you exist, as I have faith in my own ability to determine my path to love. And, as amusing to me as is the idea that I am a lesbian's ruse, I assure you I am another fumbling male.

But the only way you might gain confidence in this fact would be some sort of more substantial contact. So I propose that you call me sometime, just so that we do not remain anonymous. I know you will protest, but at least keep the number: 775 555 5792. In this context, I am wildly amusing.

And although six months may seem a long time to span with these messages, I know that in the mundane world, it is going to pass in the swiftest of frames. Which is why I am already starting to pack, and it is why I don't think it is foolish to begin thinking of meeting you.

Sebastian."

***

" E-

I realized there was no reply marked for this message from you in my box. I imagine you did receive my original response, but it was not included in your subsequent message, so I am resending, if only to have it on record. S

Emily,

I do know I was fortunate enough to catch your eye from a distance, and you so quickly steadied our approach with what I will simply call grace. But, just grappling with your fundamentals, never mind your particulars, I could only be ignorant of how elusive your gaze might be to maintain, as you explain. Understanding this after the fact makes me reel with caution but recover with my own acceptance and joy.

I put tremendous trust in my perception, probably foolishly so. But I have also been far too eager to
maintain hope in someone perhaps with only fleeting potential. It is nearly always my perception, not my dogged optimism, that informs me in the long run most. So I have learned not to linger where I cannot find what stimulates me readily. Where I cannot find kindness in actions and thought that is daring. If it were hidden from me, I think at least I would know. And I have no history to allow a prediction of how such a challenge might end.

I want to say that people know me as they know you--dependent on circumstance. I blend too easily with my surroundings. It is one of my systems: let everyone have their way, surrender your will, thereby not valuing one choice over another. And it happens to me in relationships just as you describe. And I quickly learn to resent this false routine.

And this is why I am attracted to you. I decided to find someone like me, someone's will to which I could surrender, because it was my own. And in these circumstances, I can only be brave, accept I have no camouflage, and act for myself, whatever the risk. But, my support, so wisely chosen, would often enough voice agreement, or offer valuable perspective if in dissent. And I am able to reciprocate. It is my grand plan, and it makes me a little bit of a madman, but it goes a long way toward explaining why I like you.

And to substantiate such claims of madman-dom, I will offer one of my ways through this world: When I was young, my father, working for courage by operating on fear, told me of Jesus being tempted by the devil. Jesus said, "Devil be behind me," and his choice was enough to keep the devil back. A simple story, certainly misremembered, and one that might encourage independence. But for me, I imagined that every scenario became a bargain with the devil. The devil was always ready to offer me my desired result in any situation. To ensure that the outcome would rely on my own actions or the inevitable fits of chance, and not a deal for my soul, I would silently repeat, "Devil be behind me." I still do it today, but not like I did when I was young. It is under my breath, it is not a story I tell, it is not a chain of events I dare spend too much time piecing together in my mind. I can somehow say from a distance what was before impossible to whisper in an ear.

And I'll now borrow your imagery to multiply this voice: I do tremble, in the quietest moments when I can glimpse the vastness of this desert while never losing sight of the glisten in your eye.

Sebastian."

***

It was too much. I realized, after much reluctance, that he had begun to fall for me--or rather, fall for Emily. If we had woven webs before with our words, I had now created a tapestry, and every thread threatened to break his heart. With head and pulse throbbing, I went to my keyboard and typed this, my final letter:

"Sebastian,
Perhaps it is because I am drunk I have decided to tell you this.

I had not received your response to my ‘desert’ email. I found your confession tremendously moving, and terribly sad for some reason. So, in an attempt at parity, I now confess not a maze or system, but a sin I have committed. If you choose to offer me grace, then I promise to become more substantial to you. Though I’ve long felt I deserve no redemption here.

I was dating a man with whom there was tremendous potential, and at the time (as will come as no surprise to you), I felt tremendous excitement and fear. I knew I was nowhere near complete as an individual, and so when the opportunity for a relationship presented itself, I balked. Not consciously, but subconsciously. I was so petrified that I might not have the chance to become comfortable with myself, to learn about myself, to become me. I had been feeling more like a leaf in the wind than a tree, carried in whichever direction there was the slightest nudge.

I have also always been tremendously fascinated with the possibility that individuals are so driven towards false goals they assume whatever character necessary, numb whatever emotions could prove a hindrance, and proceed at all costs to obtain those goals. In short, they prostitute themselves for meaningless, but perceived treasures.

So, for our first date, we decided to immerse ourselves in a fantasy. We took a three-day vacation together. He was a gainfully employed man, and I was a poor student at the time. So, of course, he paid for everything. It killed my pride, my spirit, each time he reached into his wallet to pay for me. I suppose I could have used your chant, “Devil, be behind me.” But I had no such chant, and I responded instead by using this time to investigate how it would feel to actually be a prostitute, rather than offer him any reason to pursue a relationship with me. As a punishment to myself, I made sure to gaze into his eyes as we were physical with one another so that I would be acutely aware of the complete lack of intimacy. And I made sure to thank him for each injustice.

For years now I have searched for a suitable definition of grace. I finally determined my own: to perform an act of kindness for the undeserving--that is grace.
****

Yes, it is me. And while I know you will instantly presume I did all of this to hurt you or get even, I promise I did not. In fact, I was shocked when you found this profile. I enjoy writing fake profiles not to mislead others, nor is it for other nefarious purposes, such as stalking, baiting, or what-have-you. The fake profiles I write are mostly me, but I change the occupation listed to one of my several dream jobs (photographer, artist, baker, writer, etc). I change my location to a city in which I would like to live (NYC, Chicago, SF). Then, I use photo-shopped pictures of myself. Once I have created my fantasy life, oddly, I am more at ease discussing myself. When I had a "real" profile on-line, I was pithy, sarcastic, witty, and closed. I believe this is quite rational given the audience. However, when I am writing as a dream, I become more real...I divulge my quirks, my awkward personality, my flaws. "A way of sending myself out into the world without suffering those anticipated consequences." And with that one magical click, it felt like I was creating a person--bringing into existence a me from another dimension.

I have been utterly tormented since I first 'hotlisted' you back. That is why I have tried repeatedly to extricate both you and me from this situation. though you never replied to the email, I wrote that I wished I had met you under different circumstances--this is true. Yet I don't regret meeting you or the pregnancy scare of any of it. The truth is that I have, for all intents and purposes, become Emily. I spent six months learning about myself, my flaws, my weaknesses, my quirks, all of it. I hated the way I had treated you, and the way I had treated myself. So, for six months, whenever I thought of you, or, as I said, a cruel observation of others, I shhh'ed myself. The emails are all true; if you read through them, you'll see that no 'prior' information was used to manipulate you. The profile is almost entirely true. It was not written to bait you; in fact, you hotlisted two of my other fake profiles, which I deleted soon thereafter. I suppose curiosity got the best of me this time around.

I hated receiving the email of you opening up, not because I didn't wish you could share with me, but because you were doing so under false pretenses. I hate that it got this far, and if you read over my emails, I hope you'll be able to use your powers of perception to acknowledge that I tried to gently allow you your dream without hurting you.

The tragedy in all of this is that, had I not met you, I would not have been who I am today, I could not have written that profile because I would not have known enough about myself to do so; however, now that you know it is me, I can assume no other response than hurt, anger, and betrayal. And I am sorry for this. Throughout, I wrestled with telling you, and surely hurting you and your dream, or breaking up with you as Emily, which also would have hurt you, or disappearing (which I tried to do, but knew that also must have hurt you). In short, this progressed away from me and I still don't know if this is the best way, but I simply do not know how to handle this.

I can only hope desperately that you knew all along, and were instead toying with me, though I feel I am not to get off that easy.

And I can only end in saying that I do exist. I am not a baker, I do not live in Chicago (again, both wishes).

But I exist.

Lexi"

***
As I finish typing these last few lines, Jeff Buckley serenades me with a more perfect ending than I would have ever provided:

Well Baby I've been here before
I've seen this room, and I've walked this floor,
You know, I used to live alone before I knew you
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Well, maybe there's a god above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
It's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

And that, dear reader, is the end of our tale.

For now, at least.

Story Part XIV

I should have known better than to label this a short story...I also should have known better than to email him back. I've never played hard to get, so when I answered his emails so cautiously, I believed I was holding him at bay while I figured out a new way to extricate ourselves from an impending disaster:

"Dear Sebastian,
Compatibility and shared passion are indeed rare and tremendously exciting. Your nod to Oscar and Lucinda was not overlooked. However, I should explain promptly what terrifies me about this prospect: We seem to have a library of commonalities, but I'm also searching for those precious gaps which leave room for new and amazing things to grow. I fear our commonalities might overwhelm that chance for growth. Further, we hermit crabs are primarily observers, filing away details for our collections of humanity. The idea that I might meet you and be merely filed away is disconcerting, to say the least.

I hope I don't sound too presumptuous, myself. I simply feel that patience might be best.

So, feel free to mildly amuse me. I might surprise you with a bark of laughter.

Emily"

I had been careless. I had encouraged correspondence, and this was certainly not in my initial plan. I still didn't want to erase my dream self from existence, but I certainly did not want to encourage Sebastian to continue corresponding. So, I simply turned my profile off, believing that one could not message a person whose profile was no longer active....I was mistaken.


" Emily:

The things that you say, they make me wonder if you could be that elusive person around whom I would be comfortable to grow. I have no trouble with challenge, it is the hand in mine I know and trust that I crave. But I concede. I am too eager with potential. And my healthiest balance of will is patience.

And accepting the wisdom of another, perhaps you will agree, is always complementary.

As is conceit, I hope, when delivered with sincerity.

Sebastian

You are the first person ever to get the Oscar & Lucinda reference, never mind understand it so succinctly. It is jarring to hear a response to such soft words spoken."

***

Yes, I was feeling increasingly tormented. I was also feeling increasingly amused...fascinated, really. While this story takes place in an on-line dating site, in which people are based on profiles depicting their favorite media choices, clothing, and sex scenes, the truths about human behavior and relationships were beginning to unfold and spill out into a much wider context. Those first impressions--those first words exchanged have the ability to entirely determine the path of a relationship. The profile I had written here, Emily's profile, was me--in the guise of a baker living in Chicago, of course, but it was filled with more truth and honesty than my former, "real" profile...the brutal honesty of my self-description was guiding our exchanges into an entirely new territory. But I knew the truth--reality--would soon have to intervene, and I still had no idea what to do.


I responded.

"Dear Sebastian,
I think this is what terrifies me most: to most people who click through my profile, there are but words on a screen. You, in being so extraordinarily similar, understand perhaps everything I've written. I feel terribly naked and exposed right now. though I suppose that's exactly what I sought when I first joined this odd world.

I have quite the busy weekend, but I look forward to your next response.

Emily"

***

I spent the next few hours agonizing--again, this response was not careful, it encouraged him to be hopeful. It was not kind, it was not thoughtful. It was selfish. So, that evening, before he had a chance to reply, I send another email:

"Dear Sebastian,
I apologize, but this just isn't the right time for me. I wish I had met you under different circumstances, but I did not. I hope you understand.

Emily."

I suppose this is how one plays hard to get. I had no idea.

A day later, he replied:

" Emily:

We, both being terribly diverse and dynamic creatures, must have countless experiences, passions, obsessions, inexplicable pleasures, traits minor and major, embarrassments, hang ups, loves and beliefs to share with each other.

It is when fully clothed, layered and obscured, that what is profound in us both may simply evaporate into small talk. But when I can speak to you directly, like a familiar hand, palms up, gliding across another's skin, so much, so simply, can be said. So as vulnerable as you may be naked, it is trust drawn from shared experience that draws you closer, as breath, like you say, forms with the one beside you.

And that, dear friend, is as much liberty as I dare take with my imagery today.

I hope your weekend has been busy is the best of senses.

Sebastian."

***

Well, if backing away was failing to create a bit of distance, perhaps running full speed, arms flailing, might do the trick...

Story Part XIII

I knew a year ago, before I had taken time to really know myself, that we had so much in common...but the circumstances had prevented me from sharing my inner-world. While this profile certainly had a few falsehoods, I was laid bare--more exposed than I would ever have allowed without that precious cloak of certain anonymity. But, my curiosity having been satisfied, I had no desire to enter into another round of cyber-relations with Sebastian. I also had no desire to hurt him, and it was this wish to be gentle, to be kind which ultimately pulled the situation out of my hands...

After a day of thinking, plotting, reasoned arguing with myself, I wrote my reply:

"But what do we say? I will agree that we have copious amounts in common. This both excites and terrifies me. I think the scales may tip in your direction once you live here. I'll wait to meet you until you've got your very own Chicago address and then--you may find me again. To ease your fears that I'll be whisked away by some other hermit crab, you are the 4th person to ever hotlist me.

Emily"

My plan, so carefully constructed, was to wait one month, and then erase another self from cyber-existence. I thought that my reply held the potential to both reject Sebastian and simultaneously allow him to feel hope--to feel unrejected...

Of course, I know now that one cannot properly reject another without inducing some small bit of pain on that person. And perhaps, in hindsight, a swift and more straightforward rejection--or even an outright refusal to reply--might have been kinder. But these were new waters in which I found myself treading, and I was entirely unsure in which direction lay the shore.

He waited about one hour before sending his reply:

"Emily:

Well, I certainly won't attempt to argue with caution. But I would like to make a few humble submissions:

1. I hope, if we are not to meet, you might entertain the idea of corresponding. At times, I can be mildly amusing.

2. If you throw caution to the wind, I will be in Chicago September 15-18. You could make my weekend with something as innocuous as a coffee meeting.

3. Hermit crabs strike quietly and quickly. Just look at me. Should one emerge, at least give me a fighting chance. Compatibility is a rare thing, never mind shared passion.

4. This is said with head bowed, but I believe myself to be the real deal. And I think you just might be, too, which compels me to make such a bold declaration.

And perhaps I have done just what I said I wouldn't do. But, should these points fall short, I at least have the blessing of both patience and perseverance to fall back upon.

Sebastian"

****

Oh, if only he knew! But my pride prevented me from admitting the truth to him, and until I figured out a new plan, I began to bide my time by cautiously responding to his increasingly bold requests...

Story Part XII

As I said at the beginning of this "short" story (which really has seemed to stretch on a bit...), the fake profiles I've written of late were not constructed to bait anyone, and certainly not Sebastian. I just love filling out those little forms, changing certain realities to fantasies, and then weaving in recently discovered truths. And as I wrote in one of these profiles, it's just another way of sending myself out into the world without suffering those anticipated consequences. I certainly do not generally respond to winks or emails--but I enjoy discovering who has been substantiating my dream life by viewing 'me'. And when I saw that Sebastian had viewed and expressed interest in two of those dream selves, I immediately deleted the profiles. I suppose I had grown a bit tired of erasing myself...and I admit, I was curious what the man who had inadvertently spawned all of this growth would say to me this time around...

So, this was me the fourth time Sebastian found me:

Location: Chicago
Occupation: Baker
Education: Some grad school
The last great book I read
history: Guerilla Prince
autobio: Miles Davis
non-fiction: Goedel, Escher and Bach
fiction: Invisible Cities

My most humbling moment
This will sound trite; but I'm actually trying to answer this question honestly. I feel humbled whenever I listen to certain musicians, walk before certain artists' paintings in a museum or finish reading certain authors' books. I realize where I'm currently positioned on the scale of human potential for greatness.

Damn.

Favorite on-screen sex scene
A scene which shouts in my mind: Clive Owen yelling "What does a person have to do to get some intimacy around here?!?" in the strip club.

just priceless.

If I could be anywhere right now
Florence, 1420 Paris, May 29, 1913; NYC, 1948 Cuba, 1973

Five items I can't live without
"hobbies", music, laughter, stories, mojitos

Fill in the blank: _____ is sexy; _____ is sexier.
Intelligence; intelligent compassion

The word or phrase that best describes my personality
The best animal to describe me is the hermit crab. I stay safe in a little cave, and periodically venture out into the world to bring tastey morsels home with me.

My personal style
I think of clothes as costumes. I also value consistency. So, I wear librarian, hipster, yuppie, punk, and sporty costumes. lately, i wear as little as possible. because it is swelteringly hot.

What I like - or dislike - about what I do for a living
I like working with my hands, having a task which is easily completed and the instant gratification I feel every day I bake. I was in graduate school (sociology) for two years before I realized that I really felt uncomfortable in that environment. But my coworkers are great, and I still get to talk about Levi Strauss from time to time. But without all of the snarky interruptions.

The type of family I come from
Three sisters, all of us very close. Dad and Mum are great, but not great together. It was a real inspiration watching how they both handled themselves with dignity throughout their divorce.

The amount of fame and fortune I've achieved in my life is...
All the kids on my block know I bake the baddest bread.

Why You Should Get to Know Me

I have an obsessive personality which I've channeled into various hobbies such as baking, collecting, painting, playing and listening to music and reading the histories of dictatorships. I'm trying to collect enough hobbies so that it appears as though I lead a normal life--though just one could so easily absorbe me fully.

If my books could carry on a more complete conversation, I'm not sure I'd be here. Would you if Gogol were speaking to you? I love people but I don't like spending much time with them. That may sound odd, but I am a bit of strange one. I am a strangest.
I don't like small talk and I'm too self-conscious to enter into a full conversation with new people, so there it is.
This does not read like a warm invitation, does it? Well, I firmly believe that to someone who understands, I will appear as though I simply understand myself. And this is mosty correct.
Sometimes I feel as though I'm too sensitive to all that surrounds me and that I'm one harsh note away from losing my mind. But I've become quite skilled at filtering out the world's demands for my senses, and focusing on all of the beauty I see every day.

I write awful poetry and insert it into books I sell to the used bookstore. On occasion, I have inserted pictures of my feet. A way of sending myself out into the world without suffering those anticipated consequences.


So, I am a thoughtful, calm though passionate, sensitive, generous and happy individual. And I have every confidence that I will find someone to share my world with...

More About What I Am Looking For

I would like to find someone who challenges me creatively, intellectually and emotionally without entrapping me in competition.

Someone intelligent, but not patronizing (to me nor others).

That gentleman who is kind to the waiter in the small diner on a road trip when no one is looking.

The guy who notices how heartbeats and breathing tend to converge to one rhythm when you're lying next to the one who understands you--the person that even your lungs trust.

Perhaps the man whose laugh fills the room faster than cigar smoke.

And most importantly, he neither fights me for the last roll, nor refuses to touch it--he offers me half.

******

If I wrote in all of the fields from this profile here, there would be exactly 6 differences between my true self and the self created here. And so, imagine my amusement when I received the following message from Sebastian:

Subject: What We Write, What We Wear
"I would only feel presumptuous attempting to outline the hierarchy of our similarities from fundamental to minute, even when my initial and only hope remains that they were already as readily apparent and exciting to you.

But I will say that I feel much more comfortable in your words than I do my own.

So, no small talk. I am moving to Chicago in April; I would like to meet you far before then.

Sebastian."

Story Part XI: Emergence

I had never been so thoroughly embarrassed in my entire life. Although it might be reasonable to assume the primary source of my embarrassment was being caught writing a fake profile, in reality, it was actually my reaction to said capture. It's interesting--if someone mistakenly believes you are boring, you can persist and show them your adventurous side...if a person believes you to be meek, you may persist and show them your bold streak; however, if someone believes you are obsessive or desperate (and how could he not?), persistence will only bring into focus their nascent view of you--re-enforcing their initial beliefs. Had I really become a desperate neurotic mess? Was I really so in need of a relationship I was willing to thoroughly embarrass myself and chase after one who had rejected me so cooly? And finally, had I really become so fragile that a rejection could send me into such an unhealthy spiral?

Sadly, I had to answer yes. To all of it.

But that by no means implied I was destined to remain as such. The day after I broke the world's record for most emails sent within an hour to a single person, I attempted a new record: most tears cried within one hour without physical pain, death of a family member or exposure to onions. After my sobfest, with eyes still red and swollen, that dull aching post-weep headache begining to creep through my brain, I sat down to my computer and typed out a to-do list. The list was not filled with menial tasks, but rather goals to get my life in order--to get myself in order. First, I decided not to date for a year. As I've said earlier, when I was dating, I felt my dimensions were of less than full rank. I also wanted to ensure that my growth and reflection during this time were not teleologically inclined toward another individual's tastes.

It's odd, but I've never really tried to figure out what I like for myself. Even as a child, I was not encouraged to discover what I enjoyed. Rather, I was encouraged to be the best at everything. There were no punishments for coming in second place, it just never happened. And I was praised for succeeding--for being special, showing the most talent in art, music, academics.

How sad is was to find that I couldn't even tell when I was enjoying something or not! I only derived pleasure from activities if there was some feedback telling me that I was doing well, I was “winning.” There’s no one to do this with respect to what music I should listen to, which books I should read, which artists I should enjoy, which hobbies I should pursue. There’s no “winning.” So, I had been setting up false competitions—Look how close to your tastes I can come! Look, I can appreciate this! I can win!

So, along with discovering my own tastes on everything (at nearly thirty years old), I began to thoroughly investigate my world views, my relationship habits. A derivative of my inherently competitive nature was the way in which I had come to view people. It's as though I was walking around with a set of inequality signs--I hadn't really been aware of it earlier, but every person I encountered or even saw from a distance had been immediately branded with "better than me", "less than me" or "equal." Further, I realized that I had become quite fond of binary distinctions: intelligent, not intelligent; attractive, not attractive.

In a word, I had become shallow.

I also came to sense that my own judgemental behavior had worked to make me feel less secure. Surely if I carried inequality signs in my pocket, others were doing so as well...As harshly as you judge others you perceive yourself to be judged. And I had become absolutely Draconic.

Further, my obsessive nature led me to constantly replay conversations, reread emails in my head, relive painful events. My photographic memory was being wasted on memorizing trash.

So, I began to shhh myself whenever I began to mentally judge another person, think of Sebastain, or ruminate on some past event. I wanted to look forward...I needed to look forward.
I pursued an education in my preferences on music, literature, movies. I traded a few meals for a few paintbrushes, oils and a canvas. I embraced activities which seemed inefficient, irrational before, such as writing poems and inserting them into returned library books.

I became me.

*****

And then, about a year after Sebastian's visit, I wrote a few profiles of me, working my dream jobs in my dream cities...Sebastian found the bulk of them and 'winked' at each slightly fictional character. And every time he found one, I deleted the account.

Well, except that one...

Story Part X

Aside from the benefits of throroughly analyzing and articulating my feelings and actions throughout this whole ordeal, writing this story has also been a wonderful opportunity to re-familiarize myself with the Roman numeral system. And it is entirely appropriate that this segment of the story should fall under X.

It is the lowest point indeed; treasure was later found, but X did not quite mark the spot...

Before receiving Sebastian's descriptive and hurtful email, I had finally worked up the courage to take the Test. I must say, if I could only impart one lesson to all of my readers, it is that you should always spend the extra few dollars on a quality pregnancy test. It simply isn't the time to scrimp... After the first, generic pregnancy test came back indeterminate, I had to once again summon all of my will to march back into the pharmacy and buy another test (this time, I went with a name-brand). Upon seeing that most wonderful little negative sign, I immediately drank to my own happiness. And then drank a bit more.

Then, I received his email.

I immediately responded:

"No, she wasn't angry. She was confused and didn't feel you had been entirely honest in your explanation. So, she wrote a fake profile to see if the boy with razor-sharp perception would ever figure it out. Yes, she's a bit mean, though perhaps she wouldn't be if boys like you didn't keep coming into her life.

I truly didn't know how to respond when you didn't figure out it was me immediately. But I suppose you're willing to believe anything when someone is saying all the right things. I know I did.

Lexi."

Exactly three minutes later, I received a response which flushed my cheeks redder than a fresh-picked cherry, dropped my stomach to my toes and raced my heart like a mad jockey:

"I knew it was you all along. No woman enjoys that music. If she did, I would marry her. I must say, you far underestimate my music sensibilities. But also, a meta relationship? That one made me laugh out loud..."

The email went on to depict all the ways in which I had made it obvious that it was me; I suppose those 'mistakes' were borne from those periods in which I proceeded as though it were a joke. Or perhaps, in my rage, my rejection, my fear of being pregnant, my confusion...I simply didn't have the patience required of such a task. And to be truthful, I'm quite glad I didn't.

My responses to those emails are now hazy at best...they ranged in content from "You got me!" to "Wow, we're both a little crazy, don't you think?" to, finally, "I'm sorry." I know I sent quite a few...all of the swirling, contradictory emotions which had been seething in their dammed resevoir broke free in a torrent of words and mouse clicks. Send, Send, Send!

I know now that I simply hated the fact that I had absolutely no control over the situation. It was not necessarily Sebastian over whom I was obsessing, it was my compulsion to maintain control over the ways in which every person sees me; if I felt a person's impression of me was horribly wrong, I couldn't resist the temptation to try (repeatedly, if necessary) to correct those views. That flood of emails was an attempt in this vein.

But, no dear reader, I no longer write fake profiles for these ends. And this profile was not the one of which I spoke in Part I. But first, I will have to weave you through those intervening months. But breathe lightly, dear reader, this story is about to rise again from these, my most dark and insane depths.

You are about to find the treasure.

Story Part IX

To be entirely honest with you all, I am still not sure if the fake profile I created then was a joke or an actual revenge plot. I do know that I was in a volatile emotional state, and at times, proceeded in both veins. The profile, itself, was written to be ingratiatingly obvious; the profile name was taken from one of his favorite albums. Under the prompt "If I could be anywhere," I wrote in the date and location to a concert of his favorite musician, from his favorite era. My fake person's location was San Francisco, her occupation, an editor. Everything was tailored to his tastes. I winked at him and then waited for the joke/revenge plot to unfold.

I suppose I wanted him to out me right away--after all, during our brief courtship, we enjoyed regaling each other of our adventures writing fake profiles. When he didn't, I vascillated between wanting him to fall in love with the fake person so that I could hurt him and wanting him to fall in love with me again so that I would stop hurting. I know it wasn't exactly sane, but neither was I at this time.

The first few emails were innocent enough; I asked about what music he listened to, rambled about abstract concepts. Again, unsure if I wanted him to actually know it was me, I tried to change my signature writing style. I told him I never wanted to speak on the phone or visit him--I wanted a "meta-relationship."

Oh, yes. That's what I told him.

I just kept waiting for the hammer to fall. I wanted confirmation for what I already knew: That I had become an emotional wreck, stooping to new and amazing levels of desperation and obsession. And I was hoping he would release me from this charade by either ceasing communication or asserting my true identity.

He did neither.

After about two weeks of navigating this river of insanity, I threw my oars overboard and headed for the rapids:

"Dear Sebastian,
Just so we can remind ourselves why we're engaging in this meta-relationship, please describe your last two relationships. Make me laugh so hard the neighbors furrow their brows; beg borrow or steal liberties if you must, but please make it funny.

Sophia."

That's right dear readers. Yours truly had dreadfully morbid curiosity. I was desperate to know why, how I had managed to screw up such potential in a mere three days. What was so wrong with me? How could I possibly have deserved to be written off so succintly, so entirely, so coldly?

He responded. And those words are now burned into my brain like a permanent neural epitaph:

"Phd Student. 28. Genius, sad she's not a supergenius. Smoked a lot, laughed a lot, too, which went a long way toward redemption. Quite funny, but I feared a little mean. I think she was quite angry I wasn't as interested as I was supposed to be.

There. You've been indulged.

Sebastian"


And that's when my little fraying thread just snapped.