Posts Tagged ‘sunrise’

Day Break

3 May 2010

Dear J-

The whole back end of the van in alive with noises this morning, some of them my fault (there’s a gentle clicking that I know must be some of the extra hardware that I’ve added and could stand to come off), some of it is getting used to the new van (they swapped out our 2008 van with 40K miles for a 2009 van with 40K miles, essentially proving that there is no free lunch), and some of it is the nature of the trip: for this wheelbase, weight, and suspension tuning, the freeway between San Diego and Carlsbad sets up an almost resonant rocking motion. Yes, I already knew I had too much time on my hands, but what should I do about it?

Part of this time could be spent fruitfully studying, I suppose; there are no doubt any number of non-fiction titles out there for me to discover, but unless they involve sunken ships, I’m afraid my attention span isn’t what it used to be. I dunno. Part of me gets up so early because I need to for the vanpool, but the estra time is just gravy, I guess — there are long stretches in the morning when I don’t say a word to anyone because I feel like I’m the only one awake in the world, though theVet has surprised me on more than one occasion while I’m reading the newspaper and woolgathering.

I actually remember the first time I got up early for myself, and it’s not a great memory: that conflicted summer of ’98, we’d gotten up before I had to go to school and some petty argument (it’s a wonder that love under the age of, say, 25, has a chance at surviving the egos) sent me marching towards the door just after six, bus pass in hand with a silent vow to stew all the way there. By the way, public transportation is an excellent service for introverts — they’re the ones staring out the window — and extroverts (on their phones) alike now, but before the ubiquitous cell phone, they were the best way I knew to be alone in public. For some reason there’s an unwritten rule on the vanpool that quiet time is reserved for the mornings; maybe that’s our nature, or just our lack of caffeine.



Always So Magic

6 December 2006

Dear J-,

There’s a line from The Wedding Singer that sounded great — Robbie, Adam Sandler’s character, says he wants to be a songwriter, one who’s going to write a song that makes people think “Man, I get what he was thinking when he wrote that.” Isn’t that the whole purpose of writing anything?

I’m back on the East Coast again again for the first time in what, eight years? At least since I was in school, and I can only think of everything that’s changed since then. Was it always so lonely, this being apart, a whole continent in between?

(I don’t wanna be lonely, baby, please help me)
I wanna love you all over

— Huey Lews and the News, Do You Believe in Love

I know that it’s got to be some kind of minor hell, or more precisely, some kind of karma for never appreciating all the thousands of kindnesses theVet does for me every day. Man that sounds horrible, like I just miss having a servant. Let them eat cake, that kind of stuff. Lonely’s more than that. Days like these, nights like these, I feel lonely in my own skin. I just don’t know what to do by myself any more. No, lonely’s gotta be somewhere between the last seat on the bus and watching the lights flicker and glow out at closing time. It’s empty chairs and desperate calls to 411, trying to remember, trying to reconnect. Lonely’s knowing just how many vacant minutes fill each dark night. It’s 18 000 days — 540 000 hours of knowing exactly what you need and learning how badly you picked that bet. All this time I thought the future was just more of the same, and I dreaded it a thousand times more than the million slow deaths of humiliation I’d already had in my life — the petrification of actually having to stand up and speak in front of everyone, everyone’s eyes, everyone’s expectations weighing a thousand tons of stares.

Dream a dream of the future with me — grey at the houses of worship, lines changed to canyons (you know I’m now almost halfway to where grampa was the first time we met?) — but that’s only the part I can’t control. I’ve said it before: now I can’t wait. Each day is a day closer, and thus another chance to discover. Yeah, I know it sounds completely Polyanna, sunshine lollipops and rainbows and yet I still can’t help but feel a little giddy about it all. Maybe it’s just who I am, but I’m still learning, learning that love is in the details. Figure it this way: 80 years, 365 days, 2 times the sky catches fire at dusk and dawn. 56 000 opportunities to share your life and amazing times while the world reminds you it’s all still magic, it’s all so magic.