Invasive Species (Wyatt)

May 29

W I went home and I wrote you this song. For your ears only!!!

June 2

W Sorry, I just can't get you off my mind. Bummed there was no proper goodbye. Although no form of goodbye would feel good anyways.

June 3

W I love you!

J I'm going to pretend that doesn't terrify me!!

W :) Keep it together, Pidge!

J Not my strong suit but I'll try. Bad stuff happens when love is on the line.

W Nope, I disagree.

J I have 20 years of experience to prove you wrong

W I'll prove you wrong

J We should put money on it. I hope I'm wrong but I'd bet my car and my house (neither of which I own ;)

W So I win...eternal bliss. You win...I owe on a house n car. Perfect :)

June 5

W Let's not think about reality quite yet! I just gotta see you again. That's all I know at this point! You make me feel so full of life. Not that it's not real...just...ahhh!!! You know!

June 7

W Just seems like it's gonna be perfect. A good date. Maybe you'll let me call you my girl then.

June 9
W Kinda bummer cause it's dry n cows are a little thin, but work went well. Listening to cowboys tell lies: broncs they've rode, cattle they've roped, fights they've won and women they've had. Ya know...the usual tall tales. Thinking of my Pidge.

June 10

W Seriously, you make me feel so good, and I know that I make you happy too. If it's short-lived because of technical issues, or we just don't hit it off - like you say, or it's too hard on you, or you meet somebody better for you...it will be fine. However this crazy thing evolves, it will. Life just happens, you come to a fork and you make a left or a right. Sometimes it's easier than others. I will not fuck you around and lie to you. My life now has a lot of great things in it, and it's missing a lot of things, too. I'm not sure how it's going to play out but I'll do the best I can do make the best decision as they arise. Whether it's you as a friend, or lover, or more. Regardless, my heart is swollen with happiness because of you. I hope you agree.

Sunburnt

I was 16, he was 18. We took a walk in the cherry orchard on the hill above my house; it was in bloom and the scent of the pink blossoms was as thick as frosting in the air. He waited until we were deep in the trees, for as far as we could see the cotton-candy puffs were arranged in neat rows, with soft long grass between; the air was sweet and carried an ambient twitter and buzz. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he crowed, as though he couldn't contain the words any longer. As if it was the most urgent message, the warning of a fire, the imminent attack of a tiger, the goodbye before drowning. "I love you." I caught the words and twisted them around in my mouth, like the stem of a maraschino cherry. I can tie a knot in this stem with my tongue, and I did, and then parted my lips and said it back, "I love you, too."

From then on, and through my early 20's, I shared "I love you's" with abandon. Relationships were lustful - I'd plow into new ones recklessly and within weeks proclaim my deepest feelings. Love was a giant reservoir! A reservoir that was so deep you couldn't see the bottom. It was so deep that I sucked up barrels of it and dumped them on unsuspecting, and mostly, unworthy, men. Love was easy and I was confident. I was naïve. 

And then love waned, and, at some point, it died. The men I was with didn't say it anymore. And neither did I. Love was fraught. It came in concert with other complicated feelings, many of them weird and problematic. Love was a weapon. It was dangerous in the wrong hands. Even, possibly, fatal in others. Best not to feel it, share it, anymore. 

It's been at least 8 years since I've said "I love you" to a partner.* And as much as it was a part of a decade of my life, I can't really remember what it's like. To feel love, to be loved. Each time I get involved with a new relationship, I'm confused: is this it? Is this love? I don't recognize it anymore. As a result, I've misidentified it - I thought those broad shoulders and that tone of voice and that gut flutter were it. But they weren't. Is that smile, that kiss, that chemical fire of chemistry it? No? Then where is it? What is it? How can I know, so if it comes again, I will take care of it? I've been trying to decipher, to dissect, the pieces parts. Perhaps if I can tell what they are, individually, when the person, the time, presents itself, again, I can reassemble love, reverse engineer it. I can make love out of what I do know, instead of what I don't. 

Here is what I have so far: 

Who You Love:

A blonde. A brunette.

A brilliant overachiever.

A girl with a baby-lady voice.

A vegetarian.

She is slight in her flimsy cotton trench – Forever 21.

She snorts when she laughs. Or barks.

Sweetie. Honey. Doll. Dearie. Dumpling. Doodle. Darling.

A butterfly. A sleek golden cat.  A swan.

An animal.

Someone in old Havaianas with dusty callused heels.

Someone very vain in her black hot pants and tights with runs down her thighs. Curvy calves.

Someone who keeps track of her schedule in a dog-eared notebook with your name and her name and blue ballpoint hearts and stars.

Someone who bakes her own bread. And makes her own bed. 

Someone that knows all the words to that song. 

Someone that drives a yellow mid-70's Datsun with a Nixon Now bumper sticker. 

Someone who eats her blueberry muffin, a big cookie, a scone and drops the crumbs. Crumbs everywhere.

Someone older than you by 20 years. Old (white hair!) – strident and shrill – you see spunk and sass.

Someone broad-backed in horizontal stripes.

Someone with cat hair on her couch and coat.

Someone not from here.

Someone who loves herself more than she loves you: A bad ass. A hot mess.

A broad. A gal. A pal.

Someone younger. Funnier. Sweeter. Smarter. Thinner.

Paula. Lainey. Meg. Jen. Dawn. Gina. Kayla. Kristie. Kelly.

A feminist. A Republican. A poet. A Jew. A gardener. 

A massage therapist. A middle manager. A mom. A moron. 

Someone. Anyone. No one.

 Not me.

Mutual Insurance (Kipling)

After two months he sends you a text, "I didn't know if you wanted to catch up this week?" You are curious. You say sure. You meet for coffee.

He is the same - a conundrum, an enigma. His features are classically, carefully drawn, beautiful instead of handsome - dark hair contrasting with a light complexion - he has strong shoulders, narrow hips and long, elegant fingers. His skin is taut over his cheekbones, jaw line, and aquiline nose, the ivory color only slightly, barely more pink on his cheeks. His full lips rest equidistant between a smile and a frown. But his eyes, the color of smoke haze in a blue sky, are not windows into his soul; instead they dart around, rest on the middle distance - he avoids your seeking gaze. His movements belie the refinement of his physical being, he slouches, he is bumbling – he accidentally knocks the spoon against his coffee cup with a clang and drops his napkin on the floor. When he speaks it is in starts and fits with long pauses between. He doesn't explain what happened. What changed. Just that he's missed you. That he thought about you every day. As you leave the coffee shop, both of you bundled in a heavy wool coat, knit cap, scarf, he nervously rubs your arm and then wraps you in a long sigh of a hug. He kisses the side of your head, your hair. Can he feel your heart beat through the layers?

That is all it takes.

Jawbreaker

I had a low-key Halloween after last year's debacle: parties with toddlers, chicken noodle soup and the World Series. That doesn't mean we shouldn't revisit Halloween 2014 or The Day of The Dead. You know, to remind ourselves of that particular life lesson.

Back to the Future (Kipling)

One of the difficult parts, perhaps even the most difficult for me, is the losing of the future you, as much as the losing of the person you are now. It's the knowing that the future you will not be coming for dinner this Sunday, or the next, or any other Sunday ever. The future you will not be setting up the game after, and reading out loud, with chuckles, the rules. The future you will not be cradling my head under your arm while the future me falls predictably asleep, during the movie. The future you will then not ensure the future me wakes back up to brush my future teeth. 

I will not know the smell of your future hair and the feel of your future breath on my neck while the future us sleep. There will be no future us sleeping. Only the future me, and the future you, in separate places. Apart. 

I will not know the topics of conversation that the future you will patter on about, as the future me drives through traffic, in a spring rain, or a cool fall day. The future me will not know the address where to take the future you or where to pick you up or have a key that fits the lock there. 

I will not be privy to the politics, opinions and humor of the future you. 

Brunette Bouffant (Kipling)

There was an after work reception in your building last night. This morning, left as a "gift" or an afterthought, the remnants of the veggie tray are tucked in the fridge. Through the plastic clamshell tray lid are the dried-out pieces of too-large-to-eat-in-one-bite broccoli, the perfectly-round-never-to-be-ripe mini-tomatoes sure to squirt down your blouse, the tasteless nubs of fluorescent carrot and the stringy stick-in-your-teeth-anemic celery. It's all arranged, artlessly, around a pot of white glop. Is it ranch? Blue cheese? It is highly caloric. The whole tray is nearly untouched. 

You'd had a conversation prior to the reception. Food would be served. What would it be? Sarah guessed shrimp. Served on the same clamshell tray the pinky prawns, harvested by slave labor in Thailand, would be cooked to rubbery blandness. You'd guessed cheese cubes - perfectly uniform 1/2 inch squares in various warm shades arranged in a pile, the orange ones revealing a flavor profile no different from the light white ones and the light yellow ones. Is it mozzarella? Is it cheddar? Is it food? It is simply cheese-ish. Perhaps there would be some meat slices - pink meat, white meat, brown meat - rolled and tucked between the cubes. A bowl of guacamole, over-pureed, under-seasoned, the color - the off-green of an old refrigerator, would tempt a few dippers. 

There would be white wine of unknown origin and varietal, perhaps a pinot grigio, a sauvignon blanc, served in brittle clear plastic tumblers. There would be "cookies" - dried out disks of white flour, white sugar scented with palm oil. For dessert. 

You found yourself wondering - does anybody like this? Do they find it delicious? Are they happy to see these plastic trays and plates of cookies? To you, it is a joyless spread. There are so many better options. Aren't there? So why are you still here?   

It's been better for some, you know, but relationships your late-30s have been like that reception, that veggie platter, that shrimp. During the relationship, the food resembles food; technically you can eat it, though it provides little nourishment, sustenance or satisfaction. You eat it but you don't crave it, you don't savor it. You try a different bite of something, maybe this will taste like something, maybe you'll have just enough of that pinot grigio to think something on this table is delicious. But it's not. And when it ends what remains is just unappetizing, inedible leftovers: in 9 months you've accumulated nothing but an old t-shirt, a couple of unflattering Instagrams and more bagels in your freezer than any single girl should consider eating in a lifetime. And the emotional leftovers: more mistrust, worry, insecurity to add to your already substantial piles. You feel proud of yourself for never getting drunk enough to say "I love you." You feel relief that you saved the receipt from his purchased-too-early- birthday gift. You feel disgusted with your pride and relief. You know there is better but where is it? The fridge? A different building? A different town? 

Trivial Pursuit (Joce)

I’m deep in the September sads. This month always makes me melancholy: the promise of a coming fall, imminent winter, inevitable inversion and long, dark days. It is the opposite of spring – lush, living things dry up and blow away, stone fruits drop and rot into sweet brown mush in the lawn, those things I said I’d do in June, remain undone. I didn’t work on my book. I didn’t lose 30 lbs. My summer fling has flung. The sweaty fervor and electric heat of summer wanes and my hopes go into hibernation.

There are babies being born, weddings on the docket, but there’s nothing in my small, quiet life that warrants a celebration. Like a squirrel, my sister says, I’m just puttering around, putting food away for winter.  I find myself more resistant, more cautious, less willing in fall. Which means it’s going to be a long, and lonely winter.

Flim, flam, Instagram (Rocco)

It's been 6 months since you "detached easily" from our relationship. I think it's time to stop following me around.

The Reliquary of Nostalgia (Joce)

A few days ago I visited the new Natural History Museum of Utah at Rio Tinto. Dinosaur bones, stuffed birds, beaded moccasins, time lines and murals of soil stratification, an ant farm.  All the good stuff. Usually these kinds of places remind me how insignificant my existence is – how vast the cosmos, the incomprehensible math that conceives of time, the millions and billions of things in all their various forms that are living and dying at any given time. Sometimes feeling insignificant is comforting to me; it’s a relief to know that whatever may be weighing on my conscience, the schedules, the bills, the loneliness, wouldn’t even register on the timeline, wouldn’t make the sidebar of a history book, doesn’t affect the turning of the earth, the changing of the seasons or the evolution of a species. Sometimes feeling insignificant is horrifying: will I just pass from this earth and not even register on the timeline? How can I make the sidebar of a history book…any book? Does my life carry any more weight than the teeny lives of those tiny ants?

This time my visit made me think about relics, specifically, how averse I am to the relics of my relationships.

I’m guilty of staying in a relationship long after its expiration date. My exit strategy is always labored, uncertain, awkward. But once it’s over, it’s completely over, done, and I make quick work of anything remaining that might remind me of the other person, our life and time together. Into the trash go the photos and notes, to the Goodwill any shared purchases, furniture, household items, matching jackets. If he doesn’t want it, I discard it. I live in fear of opening a drawer or cupboard to find a lingering memento, a project, a scrap of paper with his handwriting. I get obsessive about purging the remnants and can go to extremes to wipe the slate clean. Many times I’ve changed apartments and twice I’ve moved to another state just to escape the burden of reminiscence.

But, unfortunately, it’s an insignificant portion of a relationship that is represented by material stuff. It is the non-material bits and pieces, the sights, the sounds and the smells of “us” that is the essence of who we were together. Those bodiless things, despite my best efforts to ignore and avoid them, cannot be abandoned. Those are the relics, the leftovers, that are the quicksand of my landscape.

Catch and Release (Conover)

My roommate loves to fly fish. Several days a week he’ll get up before sunrise to tramp through the dead leaves on the river bank and sink knee deep, in rubber boots, into the icy grey river. The night before he’ll get out his rod and carefully choose his flies, sometimes referring to a thick slick book, The Ultimate Guide to Fly Fishing, to aid in his decisions. Saturday morning the smell of coffee will tickle my nose, but the warmer will have long shut off by the time I awake, this time to the crackle of corn meal crusty on a sizzling Brown Trout. Served with tiny green lentils and a seaweedy bed of kale, it is a campfire breakfast in the kitchen.

As much as he loves the humble brown fish, his true prize is a Steelhead. Thick-bodied and fierce, Steelhead are burnished on the side with speckled swaths of copper red, the uniform of a warrior fish compelled to swim hundreds of miles upstream from the ocean to fresh water. Their team motto: “spawn ‘til you die.”

Only a few of these monsters are released each year into the river by our house, and each fall the fishermen in the neighborhood compete to catch the elusive fish – for many the glimpse of a 30-inch beast – a silver torpedo, with teeth, swimming up river – is enough fodder for a bar stool story. There is simply no shame in letting such a formidable foe go uncaught.

______________________

The first thing I notice about him are his coppery eyes. I know it’s not unusual to notice eyes, first thing, but often I notice them and then easily forget their color, their nuances, their angle and tilt. I have a shy gaze and many people have forgettable eyes. But, I notice his coppery eyes and I find I can remember them, even after I turn away.

Not Srry Enough (Collin)

He’s a musician and paints hauntingly beautiful luminous portraits but he also has a good job and a decent car. He can talk intelligently about movies and literature and art. He appreciates good food and knows what to order off the wine list. He wears cute jeans and trendy sneaks but never looks like he is trying to hard. He has dark wavy hair and soft grey blue eyes shaded by shy lashes. He is never cocky but carries himself with a quiet confidence. He is quick to laugh. You find him incredibly charming. 

A couple of days after your second date, this happens:

There's a hole in the bucket (Cody)

Todays episode would be the one in which a guy who I gave my phone number to, after a flirty conversation in a coffee shop, calls me in the morning while I'm still lying in bed. We have a friendly chat for about 10 minutes and I get my hopes up that he might actually ask me out for the evening, being Saturday and all. And then I get a funny vibe. He seems to be steering the conversation in a direction that is a little too familiar. He asks me how I would describe my sense of style and then wants to know what I'm wearing...he wants to see how "comfortable" I can be with him. I keep chatting because I want to give him the benefit of the doubt; he can't possibly be doing what I think he is doing. It's just too creepy. Keep in mind I've only met this guy once...and this is the first real conversation we've ever had. I change the subject...how many siblings does he have? One sister, named Christy. Where is he originally from? Chicago. Where did he go to college? Notre Dame. He says likes the sound of my voice, and he thinks I'm cute. 

Then he asks me how many guys I've had sex with. Uh, none of your business. I stall and skirt the issue. You're kidding, right? I finally hang up when he asks me how often I masturbate.

Losing the Marathon, or Cry Me a River, Justin Timberlake (Bryant, Daniel, Shaw, Donny, Phil, and Pierre)

“Hi, Joce, It was great to have a drink with you Thursday night.  You are an attractive and funny woman but I'm not sure we are right for each other right now. I hope you're well.” Bryant

“Joce, don't worry.  I kind of thought this might be happening. Things seemed tense in your life and we seemed to be kind of cooling off a little bit.  I figured it'd either work out or we'd come to an end.” Daniel

“Your truly an awesome person and I have been thinking allot about you. The whole dating thing is difficult for me this I know...  You are one of the coolest people I have met and I most definitely want to be friends!  I think that would be the best place for us to categorize ourselves haha.” Shaw

“Work, work, work (at least for the next few weeks)…we ever going to get together, go do something fun, you remember fun don’t you :)” Donny

“I have a woman hanging all over me right now but would give her up for your company any time of the week.” Phil

"What would you like to eat?"

"I don't care!"

"Some lovely cream of wheat?"

"I don't care!"

Don't sit backwards on your chair."

"I don't care!"

"Or pour syrup on your hair."

"I don't care!"

Pierre*

Having lived in the same body and mind for my entire life, and having been a fairly introspective and self-aware person, I’ve always felt relatively sure about WHO and WHAT I am. My personality, attitudes, interests and feelings have always fallen within a certain predictable range (predictable to myself, and I would argue, to my close friends and family). I’ve been consistent (not to imply rational) in my response to events and situations in my life. I think I have many good traits.

The wrong people (Malik)

Your life may seem like shit to you but that may only be because you know you can do better. Yes, you can do better.

Fairie Princess, you are one of the most talented and bright people I know. But I also understand that often one doesn't view themselves in real terms. If you look, you will find the right people. When you find the wrong people remember most of them don't count anyway.

I'm really tired and want to go home.

tot ziens,

Malik

K.I.S.S.I.N.G. (Nate)

You know it’s coming. He’s going to kiss you!

You met for a drink and took a walk in the rain. Now you’re back at his apartment, sitting on the couch, sharing a glass of wine. You’ve slipped off your still damp shoes and tucked your bare feet up, settling in to the over-softness of his canvas colored Pottery Barn couch (he actually has a couch! And it’s not from a thrift store, scratchy and plaid or sticky, slippery Naugahyde). As he passes you the glass he remarks at the smallness of your hands, so you hold your palms up together and compare: he’s got a full inch on you, each finger, your thumb is the size of his pinky.

This is the first time you’ve actually touched each other and you know he’s noticing the cool softness of your skin and the thin blue veins lacing through the white pinkness of your hand.

He wants to show you the book he was telling you about. He unfolds his long legs to retrieve it from across the room and you admire the squareness of his shoulders on his lanky body and the gentle swoop of his blond hair, still damp from the rain. He sits closer now, his knee and your knee, your hip and his hip. He sits back and shares the book across your laps. His arm shifts effortlessly behind your neck. He turns the pages and as you comment you feel his eyes resting on your profile, your lips. You pretend you don’t notice that he’s looking at you. He makes a joke and you smile the crooked smile that you know accentuates the dimple in your cheek. Can he see the sparkle in your eye and your long dark upturned lashes? He runs his fingers down the length of your forearm so you tilt your face towards him and catch his gaze. He’s going to kiss you!

You lean your head against the squareness of his shoulders and lift your lips to his. The familiar brush and press. And then…his tongue, hard and quick, darts out of his mouth and strikes your top lip, hitting your teeth and just as fast, pulling back. Quickly again, like a lizard tongue, but a hard sharp lizard tongue, it moves in and out, poking you in the lips, the teeth. You adjust your head and try a different angle as he relentlessly pummels you with tongue blows. What is he doing? You pull away and look him in the eyes, is he kidding? But his eyes still read dreamy and lustful so you try again. You plant a firm, closed mouth kiss to the side of his mouth and he moves to find your lips with his. Soon enough, there is his tongue again, battering your face, wet and hard and persistent. You try for a third time. There is saliva everywhere and swimming in this saliva, his flailing tongue whipping around. You’re completely disarmed. This is terrible!

Where in the world did he learn this technique? Hasn’t anyone ever schooled this man? Hasn’t he watched the movies and compared what he does with what everyone else is doing? You turn your head and rest the top of it under his chin.

“We’re moving too fast, I’m not comfortable with this.” In reality, you probably would have made out with him for hours if the kissing were pleasant. You slip on your shoes and he brushes the hair off your neck as you sit forward. He understands, but he doesn’t.

He wants to see you again. He calls you the next day. You’re busy with school and work; you’d like to see him but not tonight, maybe the weekend? You avoid his calls, send emails in response, sorry I missed you. You can’t bring yourself to see him again. If he’s that bad of a kisser, what must he be like in bed? He’s clearly not in tune with the subtleties of making love, of understanding another’s body and cues. Maybe you should tell him? What would you say? It’s not your job, you decide, to tell him he is, without question, the worst kisser ever.

The two-year boomerang effect (Bryce)

7:24 a.m.
B Just wanted to say I’m sorry.
J What?! I really don’t care.
B I know. I just wanted to apologize that is all.
J After 2 plus years? Are you going through a 12 step or something?
B Nice, no, just trying to apologize. I think there is always a purpose for sincerity regardless of time.
J Well, I’ve never believed you to be sincere. I think you’re pathological. You are just a funny story I tell on occasion. I don’t need or want an apology.
B I like that. Apology rescinded.

The human condition (Jakob)

He’s 38 years old (or 266 in dog years) and he looks every excruciating minute of it. He’s skeletal, but more than just physically – emotionally he’s nothing but a collection of dried bones. His eyes sit on the surface of his face like the eyes of a fish that you just caught with stinking bait in a remote, ice cold Hungarian lake. Desperate, anxious eyes sitting on a face, taut with the transparent skin of despair and defeat.

While you talk he holds out his hands and turns them palms up and then palms down. He seems surprised that they are empty. All this work, how could my hands be empty? He creaks like an old door, “The future doesn’t exist and the past doesn’t exist, and I’m beginning to think, that the present doesn’t really exist either.”

You imagine him dissecting live rats by candlelight. He’s the last of his kind and he’s already extinct.