It came from the Past...
Yesterday, I had somewhat interesting conversations with three men from my past.
The Ex Who Says He Will Never Love Again called about an audition he went on. I was glad to hear from him and, as we talked, I started to forget why I broke up with him in the first place. Money management issues? Fiscal responsibility? Bah! He makes me laugh! Why did I shuffle him off like so much Buffalo? One of the other prime reasons for breaking it off was the fact that he was doing virtually nothing with his artistic life, which is the sole reason he was in New York in the first place. Now, he nailed the audition, got cast and is on his way to doing 4 shows a week. So, I spent much of my evening yesterday talking to him in tender tones, which is only confusing him AND me at this point. I do this. I recycle.
Also, I talked to Harold yesterday. That was the first time since the marathon "this isn't working" call and I was wary of talking to him. Frankly, I was afraid of not sounding cool. It's always permissable to weep and sputter and beg a kind word out of someone when you've ended things with THEM, but when it's the other way around, you have to sound like you're fucking Batman...supercool and a superhero. You gotta sound like you've got so many other better things to do than talk to them. And, when you get another call, you say "I gotta take this. Call you back later?" If your voice cracks, if you sound like you're pleading, if at any point you even ASK HOW THEY'RE DOING, you LOSE, Charlie. So I was cool. And then, I didn't need to force myself to be cool anymore. Harold is afraid. I don't want to spend my life with someone so limited by fear. So, it was cool. I was cool. I called him a pussy and we argued about the Olympics.
My last conversation with the past was a little one-sided. I had to stay home to wait for the gas man to fix something, and I wound up watching "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood." I was flipping through the channels and found myself mesmerized by the sight of an older man slowly, peacefully hanging up a suit coat. He turned and smiled, and I smiled back. He visited a ballet dancer before deconstructing the purposes of art on the bench in his Trolley nook. "Do you ever dance about your feelings?" Yes, Mr. Rogers. "Do you ever sing about your feelings?" Yes, Mr. Rogers. "Do you ever paint pictures about your feelings?" Yes, Mr. Rogers. I just don't honor, respect or verbalize them, which is why I date ridiculous men, read books rather than make friends and drink as much gin as I do. In the Land of Make Believe, King Friday ordered Corny to manufacture a machine that looks inside things. That was an unintentional bit of existentialism right there. Mr. Rogers' show made kids hope. I'm still trying to figure out if that was a blessing or if he did us all a disservice.
The Ex Who Says He Will Never Love Again called about an audition he went on. I was glad to hear from him and, as we talked, I started to forget why I broke up with him in the first place. Money management issues? Fiscal responsibility? Bah! He makes me laugh! Why did I shuffle him off like so much Buffalo? One of the other prime reasons for breaking it off was the fact that he was doing virtually nothing with his artistic life, which is the sole reason he was in New York in the first place. Now, he nailed the audition, got cast and is on his way to doing 4 shows a week. So, I spent much of my evening yesterday talking to him in tender tones, which is only confusing him AND me at this point. I do this. I recycle.
Also, I talked to Harold yesterday. That was the first time since the marathon "this isn't working" call and I was wary of talking to him. Frankly, I was afraid of not sounding cool. It's always permissable to weep and sputter and beg a kind word out of someone when you've ended things with THEM, but when it's the other way around, you have to sound like you're fucking Batman...supercool and a superhero. You gotta sound like you've got so many other better things to do than talk to them. And, when you get another call, you say "I gotta take this. Call you back later?" If your voice cracks, if you sound like you're pleading, if at any point you even ASK HOW THEY'RE DOING, you LOSE, Charlie. So I was cool. And then, I didn't need to force myself to be cool anymore. Harold is afraid. I don't want to spend my life with someone so limited by fear. So, it was cool. I was cool. I called him a pussy and we argued about the Olympics.
My last conversation with the past was a little one-sided. I had to stay home to wait for the gas man to fix something, and I wound up watching "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood." I was flipping through the channels and found myself mesmerized by the sight of an older man slowly, peacefully hanging up a suit coat. He turned and smiled, and I smiled back. He visited a ballet dancer before deconstructing the purposes of art on the bench in his Trolley nook. "Do you ever dance about your feelings?" Yes, Mr. Rogers. "Do you ever sing about your feelings?" Yes, Mr. Rogers. "Do you ever paint pictures about your feelings?" Yes, Mr. Rogers. I just don't honor, respect or verbalize them, which is why I date ridiculous men, read books rather than make friends and drink as much gin as I do. In the Land of Make Believe, King Friday ordered Corny to manufacture a machine that looks inside things. That was an unintentional bit of existentialism right there. Mr. Rogers' show made kids hope. I'm still trying to figure out if that was a blessing or if he did us all a disservice.
posted by Unknown at 12:15 PM
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