The past 12 months
Have been thrilling, frustrating, funny, sad, exhilarating, disheartening. In short, they’ve been… life. I can’t explain why I haven’t been able to write for almost exactly a year, but I’m reminded of those old comedy bits where one of the characters bumps his head, gets amnesia, then bumps his head again in the same way and regains his memory. Something like that may have happened with me. This is how it went down:
The first ‘blow to the head:’ around this time last year, my below-the-radar not-relationship relationship with Jz ended, amicably but sadly. A moratorium on real-time communication persists to this day. Losing a friend is never easy, no matter how many times it happens. And yet, I was thinking how the way I (or anyone) experiences a person may be indivisible from the relationship they have experienced together. In other words, it may be impossible for me to experience those things I miss about Jz apart from being in a not-relationship with her: ‘just friends’ simply may not be enough. And this may not even be dependent on a willingness on either of us: it may be inherent in the relationship/not-relationship we had itself.
During this time I remembered one important detail: Mom gave me one last gift at her passing. Enduring the grief and loss built in me the capacity to withstand just about anything life could throw at me. Even this. I’m not as fragile as I once was.
I tried to carry on. I worked, I played. I met some great new people.
Over the holidays I learn that one of my two uncles (and his wife) has died in an automobile accident.
One week later, I learn that my other uncle has also passed away.
The phone conversations in which I learned these two events were the only contact I had with relatives during this generally relative-heavy season. Why is my family so distant toward me? It has taken me a year to begin to attempt an answer.
On a more positive note, I find, and move into, a new, bigger, brighter, airier apartment. My previous one was so small that its main attraction was as a curiosity. The new place (where I currently live) begins to approach civilized living.
Also around this time I start seeing/not-seeing someone again: blissful, beautiful, exhilarating.
Things at the office take a turn toward the stressful. It seems like a small thing in light of all the goodness that seems to be attending my life otherwise. And yet, memories of this time are outlined with a ragged edge I can only attribute to this highly-localized source of stress. I’m reminded of an article I had read about how higher primates mostly die from stress essentially because their/our more ‘advanced’ brains are capable of a thing called ‘worry’ that hurts the metabolism as much as a real stressor event (say, lion chasing me down) affects other animals. But the thing is, if the zebra/gazelle/whatever survives, three seconds later it has let go of the stress and is happily munching on grass wherever it happens to be. We primates are not so gifted: we tend to hold onto stress for hours, days, years. Decades. Such a continuous onslaught takes a heavy toll. It takes a conscious effort to let go of stress in my case, anyway. I’m so glad I took up yoga around November (2006).
It gets so busy that I can no longer spend any time on this (website) or any other side-project. Feeling mortified that I’m not reading more, drawing more, playing guitar more. Hey! That’s a stressor, too. So this is what they mean by the term ‘vicious cycle.’
Finally I surrender to the process, put my nose down and get to work. The perceived burden eases considerably.
In late April (call it a belated birthday present) I take a few days off to R & R and pick up the rest of my stuff, which has been in storage way out back in Florida since my move here. The process of persuading the mighty Amtrak to transport a dozen boxes to Penn Station is worthy of its own Keystone Cops episode, but seeing old friends and spending a few days parked in front of the Gulf of Mexico can do wonders for one’s patience.
It brings some melancholy to reencounter old CDs and box after box of books on graphic design and Photoshop how-to’s. Remember when I used to consider myself a designer? Life changed so radically after arriving here!
Months pass, dotted with occasional events of note (the Mermaid Parade, an overnight visit to Fire Island, a couple cool rock shows: check Flickr). Bills get paid. Meals are eaten. A couple Craigslist searches yield much-needed housewares. Frustratingly, I seem unable to find the right couch for this place. (I’m still looking.
A major deadline looms at work. ParentsConnect 2.0, as we’ve taken to calling it, is due to be released in late August. (As of this writing, it’s still due to be launched!) Many late nights, even a few Saturdays are offered up. It all feels bearable because I know that at the end of the week I’ll have arms to hold me, beautiful eyes to look into. I don’t ask much of the Universe but, despite the increased workload, for a few moments there it feels as though I’m getting far more than I need or could hope for.
Then the second blow to the head came.
Only this break-up felt more like a punch in the gut: gasping for air, reeling back in confusion, seeing stars, mind casting about for a new frame of reference.
The past 12 months now look different in my mind’s eye than I remember them, even just a month ago.
In the past few weeks I’ve started making music again. I’ve determined that I should no longer shame my people by being the only puerto rican on Earth unable to dance salsa (so I’m taking lessons). I’ve got my eye on the next Dr. Sketchy session. And, well, I wrote this. I’m carrying on.
· Comments (5) ·