April 04, 2004
The Space In Between
I've got memories
I keep them away from me
They won't behave
Won't be what I want them to be
I've seen it all and it's all done
I've been with everyone and no one
So many squandered moments
So much wasted time
So busy chasing dreams
I left myself behind
- Tindersticks
Things are breaking.
One of my windows is broken. I am exposed.
One of my speakers is broken. I am partially deaf.
One of my laptop feet is broken. I am unbalanced.
One of my headlights is broken. I am functioning improperly.
One of my chairs is broken. I am falling through.
Things are coalescing.
My tea is vibrant. I am happy.
My house is warm. I am comfortable.
My cupboard is full. I am satiated.
My coursework is cohesive. I am content.
My room is organized. I am home.
Time is moving slow. There are still five weeks left. Time is moving fast. It has already been five weeks.
There's a dialectic afoot and uncertainty in the air.
This is the space in between.
I don't know what to make of things.
I think I know what this is about. You might think so, too. We are both wrong.
this is how it happens
sticks in my hands i hesitate lost between beats there's tension like looking down from a tall building you know you're going to fall, you can't resist it's terrifying, but you want what you fear
you can't save yourself someone's got to reach out and break the spell someone's got to grab you a touch, and you shiver back into your skin, like the crack of a drum out of silence
you've got to find your way back
- Patrick Friesen, from "Singer"
Pain is such an easy thing to learn to love. It fuels late night coffee-drinking binges so I don't have to sleep, and don't have to dream; it reminds me of nostalgic pleasures, of times when its lonely and austere offices were my only recognized companions; it comforts me, in its own way, whilst I sit on my kitchen floor, thinking too much.
My rug, too, was bought on sale. It seemed like such a bargain for a comfortable place to fall down on. The little things and the cheap things, at times, provide such comfort. It seemed odd, somehow. Or maybe it is the smallness and the cheapness that occupies my attention and distracts me from real troubles. I reached over, and picked up the coffee cup, which now seemed barely warm. It was as though the coffee was holding on to the last vestige of heat ever so slightly. Everything, it seemed, was holding on, ever so slightly.
I was sitting on the floor of my kitchen, an hour after getting home from work, and a short 10 hours since I woke up. Is this all that is left? Is this all that there is? I felt cheated. When do I find out what the rest of life is like, the kind I saw in picture books on the coffee table in my dentist's office? When do I find something other than the small joy of sitting on a cheap rug, drinking not-so-cheap shade-grown coffee?
I wondered about the shade-grown coffee farmer. I wondered what he had left after the end of the day. Was he happy, getting his $1.57 a pound? Did he care? Did he have time to care? Free time is such a dialectical gift. We desire more and more free time, and yet, when it appears, we are haunted by the questions and concerns it allows. Free time, indeed-- you get, it seems, what you pay for.
I have too much free time, and too much time to think. I spend too many nights sitting here on the floor. There has to be something more dignified, something more fulfilling than this. I sipped the rest of the coffee, leaving only the sand-like particles of coffee that had slipped through the French press and ended up in the bottom of my ceramic cup. Sometimes the only things left are the things that get left behind.
Unopened books, unstarted letters, the actions I keep putting off. I want to write these papers, talk to these people, listen to the sounds of morning and not be scared. I want a pair of clean socks, and the voices of the past to calm down. It's loud in here, and I'm tired. But it's not all like this. There's the everyday, too: the curtains I hung, the books I arranged, the coffee I bought from the store. There's the pictures I put up on the wall, and the floor I washed with dangerous smelling cleaners.
This is the mad season; this is the space in between; this is when you sniff too much Drano.
Purgatory is a space in between.
Memories feed on each other, growing, with the whole weight of history behind them; I always remember the minor details. On August 31, 2001, I had my first taste of gin. It was another time in between. I had quit at Bon Appetit, and not yet started again at LBCC; I had dropped out of school, and was caught in the dialectic of wanting to go back, but being unable to concentrate, to study, to think; I was taking so many pills (thank God for $5 co-pays), but none of them seemed to be helping anything at all.
It was a Friday. A Friday night. I brought her roses; I don't know why. Maybe... maybe I'm just like that. We were drinking gin. "A little water?" "A little," I said. "No, too much," I said. "It's ok," I said.
Things happened. Things didn't happen. At the time, I never thought I would end up being the conservative one in a relationship. I never thought I would predicate certain things on some genuine assertion of love. I never thought love would turn out to be so important to me. "Do you love me?" She frowned. "Um. Yeah. Sort of. For tonight, at least. And the morning, too." I put my shoes on, and left. I called, and told her it wasn't enough. I went home and drank more gin, and thought about what might have been.
Spring forward, fall back down
I'm trying not to wonder where you are
All this time lingers undefined
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving
- The Weakerthans
Over the years, the ratio of gin to water has increased. A little bit. A splash. Now, it's just the slow dissolution of the ice cube. Gin reminds me of things I want, and can't have. Gin reminds me of things I can have, and don't want. Gin reminds me of miscommunication, and misunderstanding, and misinterpretation. Gin reminds me of the things I shouldn't miss, but miss anyways.
Over the years, the weight of gin's memory has increased. Gin after leaving Stonybrook. Gin after Cassie left. Gin after leaving LBCC. Gin after Jen left. Lots of left and lots of leaving. And wondering who did what.
This is not about a breakup. This is not about someone I miss. This is not about a bitter boy, dying in the dark.
This is about memories that cling like leeches. This is about pain that comforts like cocaine. This is about straight lines that always seem to circle. This is about the glass of gin in front of me. The glass I'm staring at. The glass that calls my name, repeating the horrors and comforts of those precious moments of pain. The glass that says, "We know you Sean. We know how you feel. We understand you. Come, sit with us again. Come, let us comfort you again. Come, be with us-- be us-- again."
This is about accepting pain's omnipresence, and saying no. This is about embracing Pascal's agonic doubt, and saying no. This is about looking at the faceted glass, the sparkling ice cube, the sweet-smelling gin, and saying no.
This is about making an appointment to have my window repaired. This is about adjusting the audio output on my speakers to make do with what I have. This is about finding a slim book to balance my laptop on. This is about getting out a screwdriver and replacing the broken light. This is about sitting on a different chair.
This is about finding my way back. This is about remembering who, not where, I am. This is about living though the space in between.
Posted by Sean at April 4, 2004 04:52 AM