That old heartbreak


That old heartbreak, is it gone?

Who was it?  How did it end?  Did you do it?  Were you right to?  Wrong to?  Or was it them, did they end it?  What happened?  Did you understand?

And after it ended, for how long did you mourn?  Or are you still?  If it’s over or if it lives, what have you done in the midst of that pain?  What did you do to get past it, if you’ve gotten past it?  What can you do?

Is it just one heartbreak you think of when you think of this or are there more?  And if there are more, is there a hierarchy?  The most, the least, the best, the worst…

And if you have somebody now, right now, the be-all-end-all-of-them-all (at least I hope that’s who they are for you), what does this do to those old ones?  Those old, excruciating heartbreaks.  Do they change in measure, in relevance?  Were they just a path, a sort of prep-school that enabled you to appreciate this one now?  Or were they just there, inevitable encounters in a life around people but with no effect or relevance toward this one?  Were they the one that got away?  

Maybe you’re not with anybody right now.  If so, where have those heartbreaks gone?  Are they right there?  Are they a good riddance, in spite of the heartbreak?  Do they add up to the story of why you are alone?  How close, how far do they feel?  

Where do they go?

But how will I find you?

Some time ago, I was teaching at a day camp for 5 year olds.  Our teaching assistant was a young college student.  She was a really great teacher and very sweet with the kids.  We took them swimming every day, offered a wide variety of interesting science and art workshops, and played all sorts of games.  It was so much fun.  One of our campers, a playfully rambunctious yet somewhat reserved boy, really took to the teaching assistant and would plop himself on her lap whenever we got the group together on the floor.  On the last day of camp, kids were casually talking about what they were going to do next.  Some kids had other camps, some had trips, and some were going to spend some time at home.  Plopped on her lap as usual, he suddenly turned her face to him with his hand and urgently asked, “What about you?  What are YOU going to do?”  She lightly said she wasn’t sure, that she was going to travel a bit and maybe spend some time with her family.  He started to explain to her that he wanted to know where she’d be, he wanted to know how he was going to be able to figure out where she was.  “But how will I find you?”   She explained she really didn’t know because she wasn’t sure herself where she was going to be in the next few months.  “I must be able to find you,” he said, “I will tear the world apart to get to you”.

What’s on my mind?

Zero to Hero wants to know.  Or wants me to know.  Or you.  So, here:  

Today’s assignment: write the post that was on your mind when you decided to start a blog.

  • There was none.  I already write daily and it’s private, personal writing. Although most of it is journal/stream of consciousness writing, I sometimes write using the type of frameworks one learns to communicate with others and be understood.  And so, because some of my writing might be understood by others, I wondered what would I happen if I shared it.  I have dear friend that blogs and she seems to do that with a mixture of fearlessness and conscientious editorship and so I wondered how I’d do writing regularly on a public blog. So this is me following through with this idea and currently driven by the Zero to Hero prompts.

If I were to share some “Big Idea” with the world, well, what would I say? Here’s a partial list:

  • I am curious as to whether “I can write” publicly. I know I can write but there is a particular, seemingly bigger “I can write” that applies to being liked and read and followed (I think I’d find these words appropriate even if they didn’t apply to some of the buttons one can press when reading a blog).
  • I struggle with the intensity of feelings I have regarding: sometimes feeling violently lonely and sometimes fiercely wanting to be left alone. I wonder if writing publicly can shed some light on that.
  • I want to be found amazing.  Sometimes when my internal critic is distracted I find myself amazing.  But I wonder if I can be found amazing by strangers who don’t already love me.  And why should I care?  I am not sure.  Maybe I don’t care but I’m so for sure curious about it.
  • Can this medium help me find others to connect and admire and love and want to make waffles for? Or whatever they like to eat… Can writing publicly and reading others’ blogs help me find someone who I can say I LIKE YOU SO MUCH I WANNA MEET YOU AND BE YOUR FRIEND to?  Without seeming like a creep, though…
  • Would you ask me some questions? Anything that might help me learn more about myself.  Or is there anything you want to say?  About you. That might help me learn more about you.
  • I don’t know why people are sometimes so crappy to each other, so dismissive. I think it’s because it’s easier to live with the door closed than to live with it open. I hate it. I hope I can catch the times when I’m being crappy and dismissive too.
  • Why in the hell can’t people appreciate what they have? Why is it so hard? That against: What is it that happens that allows us to heat up and boil in life situations and relationships that makes us unhappy yet we stay there, forever and ever and soul-crushing, hope-numbing ever?
  • Would it be entirely humiliating and crazy ridiculous and the-opposite-of-your-goal-is-what’s-gonna-happen if I made a blog to find the super-duper-amazing bestly-matched and rightly-so and non-stifling-at-all capital-L Love of my life? Would the fact that I do this be the final preventing factor to us finding each other?  Might there really somebody out there for everybody?

All right… feeling kind of yucky right now. So I’m gonna go ahead and press “post”. Ugh.

Try this: try being an asshole.

Try this: try being an asshole. And characterize yourself. What will assholes like you do? What will they think?

An asshole like me will see a tiny fruit fly dash between my face and my book and will be moved that there is life other than me in my kitchen.

An asshole like me will long-time-dip panettone in eggs, cream, and orange liqueur (cause I’m out of bourbon) to fry it up in butter during a morning snow storm for eating while reading American Gods. And will classify this as a top lush morning.

An asshole like me imagines that you are out there and that you will be that one, this one, The one. And that you’ll love and cherish me and you and us and that we’ll find each other finally and soon without suffocating each other or sacrificing anything about who it is that we can individually be. But on the contrary boost, supersize, level up.

An asshole like me thinks it’s probably too late.

An asshole like me will drive mice out of a house (not even my house, some other asshole’s house) for a couple of miles so they can have a chance somewhere else in some wildernessy park. Yes drive them in a car. In a container with a lid. Shut up about turning them into prey.

An asshole like me will want you to hang out with me for a little bit. Assholes like me don’t know contemporary music and discover things late. This is where assholes like me are at. In love at:

Your turn.  

And please, oh pretty please, share. 

A kiss, a kiss, my kingdom for a kiss


Sometimes, other than the voice I am talking to, there is noise on the other side.  Sometimes laughter, sometimes yelling. The voice I’m talking to says, “gimme a minute” and I hear a muffled something said to someone else.  To someone.  Else.  And then the voice keeps talking to me.  And eventually we hang up.  And the silence, afterwards, the silence on this side, is just so loud.  Debasing.  And just so fucking stupid.  And lumps my throat.  Humiliating and oh so certainly unplanned.  Because this is not the way things were supposed to go.  There was supposed to be ruckus here too.  A phone call like this was supposed to be an interruption to interactions perpetually going on over here too.  Of family and love and crazy and busy and often and always and everyday and all.  But it’s silent over here.  It’s silent again.  Still.

A kiss

A kiss, a kiss, my kingdom for a kiss.  Is this why we would do it?  Is that kiss what’s gonna bail you, me, out of this mire?  Or is it something else.  It must be something else.  And I think and imagine how, if I were ever kissed, and it was real and solid and good, everything could fall away and be second to that kiss.


Lush to need nobody.  Want, sure, but not need.  Wouldn’t have it any other way.


There is a switch that can take things to bad.  The switch can take things to good too.  And in the middle, to despondent.  Easily, one way or another.  Depending on how the day was, who we talked to, what we saw, remembered, tried, thought.  A switch.