Monthly Archives: January 2014

The Dreamer and the Muppet

Today, I woke up with this song (see below) in my head. It is a song, I might add, to which I have not listened since college. I wouldn’t insist you listen to it, as I would, say, Kate Bush’s “Running Up that Hill” or the Arcade Fire’s “Neighborhood #3.” Eighteen years later, it seems schmaltzier, less beautiful . . . and this is coming from someone who loves, LOVES, the Christopher Cross song “Sailing.” But I think I thought of it because thinking about people to whom I was once so much closer brings up two categories of those people: college friends and former lovers.

Matt was kind of both. He seemed hilarious, I am hilarious, so we briefly dated and were terrible, terrible, horrible together: crabby and cranky and unpredictable. So, we stopped and happily spent the rest of our college years together in plays, musicals, choir concerts, and, for one summer (see The Summer We Knew We Were Young), housemates. Once, when I was in a David Mamet play and had to play a chain smoker, Matt took me out back of the fine arts center and taught me how to smoke. He took great pleasure in that—particularly because I didn’t.

Matt loved screaming. Matt had an Irish fisherman’s sweater that my mom still talks about fondly. Matt seemed to be the leader of a pack of wild Lost Boys and was responsible for some of the more ridiculous pranks on campus, always involving large phallic structures.

Matt and I were both DJ’s at the college radio station and spent many silly hours singing very, very loudly and intentionally not always well in the booth together. Our favorite was Juliana Hatfield–how 90’s is that? In reality, Matt had a beautiful singing voice, and he married another dear friend with another beautiful singing voice. They have a million boy children now, a new pack of Lost Boys for Matt to lead.

The last time I saw Matt, it had been years, and I was with his wife in his house, when he came home for dinner. “HI!” I bounded towards him. “Oh, hi, Brynny,” he said, hanging up his coat and walking into the next room, away from me. For some people, you’re always the irritating little sister, sometimes enlisted in the hijinks, sometimes merely tolerated. Here are two songs from the two sides of Matt: the Dreamer and the Muppet.

First Love, Second Draft: A History of Us in Debt

Why is it that when we talk about the past, we often talk about what we owe it? What does it mean to have a debt to memory? And what of those we love primarily in memory? When is lost Love an expenditure—a junket, an indulgence to be enjoyed like a gift certificate which we can use as we like—and when is it an investment—a surplus, a resource on which we can draw a return? Can we ever write it off?

Memory is a banker for whom we provide the bail-out. We make deposits and withdraw at all hours; even when we are sleeping, we are spending as much as we have saved. There is no saving—only countless transactions with hidden interest charges and fees for shifting that which was allotted for our future into currency for the moment. We attempt to balance our accounts daily and always think we have enough. We do not consider what will break the bank.

The Short-Term Loan

You are 12, and I am 16. We are at musical theatre camp, and you are the real performer, lying about your age so you could come. You see one long braid down my back and follow me around, from the cafeteria to vocal rehearsal to dance practice, where you want to be partnered with me, as if you could spin my red hair into gold. I think you are 14 and only notice you because I believe I am worth following and because your eyes unsettle me, watching me as a cat watches unseen souls in the darkness. Because of the age gap, I feel powerful, but when you first touch me, I become a liquid asset, transfigured by your heat into something altogether different. There is kissing behind the sets and on the stairs to the dressing room. You call me once that year and talk about horror movies, which I find disgusting, and you seem both arrogant and naïve.

At camp that next summer, and for the next five summers—even when I am in college and your counselor—we will continue to withhold affection spitefully, the age difference an arrogance of its own. The withholding takes different forms: one year, you will awkwardly ask me, at the beginning of the week, if I mind that you want to be with some other golden-haired teen beauty who can tap dance. The next, I will mock you for your devotion; I will do this cruelly to prove that I am learning something in college, until my fellow counselor, who is also my best friend, who is also in love with me, will yell at me outside of the dorms when our campers—including you—sleep inside because I never look at him the way I look at you.

So then, each year, each of those weeks will end with our reunion, magnetized to each other by doubt and conflict. We will give in, give it all to each other in those moments when we feel time running out and the rest of the year, after one summer week, spreading out like a certificate of deposit. Our touches feel grasping and greedy, but our tears and our silences are ever-plentiful and free. You will tell me that you love me, and our weeping is a consecration. We are like a young married couple applying for our first loan—the loan to buy our dream house. We do not know that we cannot afford this house, nor that we will pay for it for the rest of our lives.


You are 18, and I am 22. We make love once—my first time—that June, at camp, of course, although this time, I have had to drive to meet you, no longer even a counselor, for you have called me, extracting the number from a college friend still working on campus. You have called me, and I must come because there is an uncashed check in your voice and I must sign for it. When you walk out of the choir room and see me, you stop, radiant, and I ignore the greetings of all who still know me, pushing past them to bury my face in your warm hair, your neck, the secret of us revealed to all around like a legacy read off by an executrix. That night, your roommate sleeps in the current counselor’s room, since the counselors now were campers who knew Us, who knew about the dark walks after rehearsals and me coming back in tears, you flushed with lust and confusion. This roommate will have told you not to call, that one’s best chances are with girls one’s own age; however, since I have shown up, he is impressed, sets his bar higher, and sleeps on the floor in the next room. I have been naked before with men but never with you and never for sex. We have never had more than an hour alone to count the prizes among the treasure of our bodies. For years, I will tell others that the album playing was Liz Phair’s “Supernova,” but it is, in fact, “Fields of Gold” by Sting, in stark contrast to the bare walls of the dorm room, made stranger by my knowledge of the room’s previous inhabitants, how the walls, during the school year, were covered with a dime store tapestry and posters of French films. It is harder to accept this gift than I thought, though neither of us doubts that it is time for it to be given and received.

This is your last year attending camp. You will go to Colorado the next, intending to study film; in two years, you will have a son you did not plan. You will drink your twenties away, hoping that merely staying near him will make up for your own father’s disinterest. But now, you are 18 and I am 22, with an entire night before us. I wear your dead grandfather’s robe to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and your roommate tells you that you have eaten of the forbidden woman.


You are 18, and I am 22, at a Best Western in Tulsa, a city I do not know at all, in which I have little interest except that it holds you. It is the second hotel room I ever pay for by myself and the first for these purposes. I have driven all day to Tulsa, your home, where I have never visited you, simply because it did not occur to me that I could, our assets so tied up in location, so rooted in camp. It occurs to me now because I have a paycheck that isn’t from work-study, which somehow legitimates this plan. It later occurs to me to wonder why money legitimates anything about being grown up.

It is one in the morning, and I have been here since eight o’clock, watching the television and wondering when you will come home and find the message I have called. These are the days before cell phones, when one had to trust in the goodness of mothers to pen a note from the girl she knows you love and have no business loving. One hopes the recipient notices the note on the counter, in the dark, when He returns from a night out with friends, doing the things that lead him to rehab years later. Tori Amos, your idol, is on The Tonight Show, singing “Father Lucifer.” She wonders if Joe DiMaggio still puts flowers on Marilyn’s grave. I have been wondering many things. You arrive, and I think of nothing to do right, over think everything else. We are in bed again, for the second time, and I do not know why I have to get up and leave the room for a minute, after sex, but it has something to do with the division of this room from this situation, of myself from you.

The next day, at your parents’ home, you do not know fully for what I have come, which makes two of us, since this was a gamble, an unsound plan with unstable backing. You tell me it is too strange, that you have nothing to give me, that I will always be your gold standard for women, but all we have given is foreign currency, beautiful and worthless, which cannot be exchanged for anything, except at a reduced rate and is better left a trinket. When I return to my apartment that night, I play “Father Lucifer” on repeat one; it will repeat for two weeks, as I lie on the floor and drink cheap wine, leaving only to teach my first composition class.

But that is after the drive home, which takes four hours, so I will cry all the way back to Kansas and throw change into the tollbooth every thirty miles, until I have nothing left.


You are 28 and I am 32. I have made a huge mistake, moving from Seattle to Missouri, and I am alone in my office when I receive your message on Friendster, reading, simply, “Just let me explain.” On the phone that night, we talk as we never have or could when we did not understand the value of even our own lives—the many ways one can invest poorly, how one is capable of gaining and losing interest in lovers without intending to do either, how some things retain their value because they are rare. Having always spent Time like it is an arcade token, which is to say to spend it when we had it, this phone call is a vacation accrued after years of labor. The darkness stretches out in a room more familiar than the hotel room or a dorm room stripped bare, since this is my room, and you seem more familiar, more loved for your years of absence than when we lay absorbed by those rooms belonging to neither of us. You apologize for youth. I am awed and saddened by the difference in how we spent our twenties.

Though I feel as if I have been given a great gift in your return, I will choose to pursue another lost love because the risk seems lower, more manageable given my emotionally impoverished state in this terrible town. When I write to tell you this, you say it is as if you are standing on a dock, watching a boat pulling away; you see me wave from it, and you did not realize I was even on the boat. Though I will feel your cat eyes on me in the dark, I will rejoice in making a careful decision. The choice to love this other will later become a consolidation of all emotional losses and exceed them horribly, at the same time, but at this moment, I consider myself simply lucky to have secured access to your life again.


You are 34, and I am 38. I look at Facebook for the third time this morning to see if you have responded to my comment about Pina in 3D. I consider adding Adrienne and Claire, your two best friends, and remind myself, again, that I have never and will never meet these women, though we speak through your wall to each other like Pyramus and Thisbe. We speak about you, around you, and you “like” everything we say. Two years ago, you consider visiting here but have no money; and I consider buying half your ticket. I consider going there myself, but I have vowed never to go to you again, or to listen to Tori Amos. I have moved back to Seattle to save what was left of me after Missouri and the break-up with the other one I loved, which caused me to sob until my top rib slips out of place to make room for the sadness. It has taken two years to recover. A friend, upon seeing your picture on my wall, says you look like my new boyfriend, and at times, she is right. He finds my spirit generous, and the love is true and supportive. You respond to one out of every five messages, and I send one more immediately, in which I ask you more questions than you will ever answer, beginning the wait again.

Armed Robbery

You are 36, and I am 40. I step off the plane in Austin, dressed in all white, and you step out of the car to pick me up. I said I would never go to Tulsa again, and I haven’t, but I have forced my way here, instead, your new home of a week. It is a big moment, but I hate your hair. Your cat eyes are puffy from drinking again, and you tell me, as we get in the car, that if you act weird, it is because you took an Aderol yesterday to help you finish some work. We have two nice hours and a bottle of wine before you yell at me. I do not understand that it doesn’t take much for drinkers to get angry because I do not understand addiction, my own drinking heavy but not daily or in secret. We are on your bed, listening to the CD I made you, just for this night, and I tell you if you yell at me again, I will leave. You apologize, as Beck’s “Lost Cause” comes on. I think: if God exists, he manifests primarily as a DJ.

We canoe on the lake the next day and try to have all the conversations for which we never had time, try to make up for lost time. But the time is already lost—I could not make love last night after you yelled at me, could not sleep, and each time you touch me, I pull away, despite the years I have spent wanting just that. There is a new love back home in Seattle, but I tell him that this trip is one I have to make in order to be whole, one last heist before I quit for good. Before you are even awake that first morning, I call him, tell him that this trip is not going well, that this was a mistake, and that I love him, love him, love him. He tells me to get through the next two days and then come home to him. He will listen to the CD I made, until then.

I do not make it two more days. The second night we drink heavily: I am desperate to have fun, having disliked you all day—your arrogance without accomplishment, your bitter rage at your 24 year-old ex-girlfriend, your mother, your son, your life, your need to smoke a cigarette or weed or take a pill or drink every two hours; you are angry at me in that way only lust can fuel and want to blur my edges, if you cannot have my soft body. We drink until we are drunk, and then we drink some more, get in your car, and suddenly the tumblers click, the safe is open, and the alarm inside of me goes off, as we speed down the highway and you begin to yell at me again. You are not my treasure, this has not been worth it, and I think that we might die, the car going faster, and I pray for the first time in years, really pray. You notice I am white-faced, that I refuse to look at you or talk. And so, you yell and yell, swerving to scare me more, laughing when you do. This is not my sweet-faced lover at 12, or, maybe, it always has been.

We arrive at the apartment, and I run upstairs, find my suitcase, start to pack. It is three in the morning. You push me on the bed and somehow there’s a knife, but I am sobbing with my eyes closed, and a voice from my mouth stumbles as it repeats the thing even it cannot believe it says: please don’t kill me please don’t kill me. You let me up, I grab my bag and run from you, as I always knew I should, run from the scene of this crime against my heart and maybe yours, run in this strange neighborhood until I reach a Walgreen’s, and the night manager takes me into the back room, gives me a bottle of water, wipes the blood that is, thank god, not my own off of my arm, and tells me, as I cry and hate myself, “Girl, we’ve all been there. You got away, and you never need to go back.”

Safe Deposit Box

You are 18, and I am 22. It is one in the morning, and the knock on the door startles me so that I feel sick. I open the door, and you are finally here. Your eyes are clear, and you are wearing a straw-colored tee shirt the color of your shoulder-length hair. In the sodium light, you are so golden, you are so beautiful, that it brings tears to my eyes. Here, in memory, I stay with you in that doorway forever, owing nothing to you or to myself but that which we owe to love, who never forgives a debt, and so we keep on paying until there’s nothing, nothing left.

These Arms Were Mine: First Love is a Slow Dance that Goes On Forever

First love looks like so many things. For my niece, right now, it looks like a tall, silent guy being forced to make Smores and endure the incessant, quick-paced, ludicrous banter / badgering of her mother and aunt with him. For my sister, it looked like a 19 year-old girl driving across the state of Kansas every weekend to see the guy she started dating the summer before her first year of college, the guy she would become engaged to at the end of that year. I don’t know if I really saw my first love as my first love until years passed, and I realized he is still the one I think of, when I think of young love.

For one thing, he was too young for me. At an age when half a year develops the brain substantially, he was four years younger, though I wouldn’t know that at first. We met at musical theatre camp (true story), and he followed me around a lot. New to kissing, I was not averse to doing more of it, even if I wasn’t sure about this kid who liked to talk about horror movies and was definitely in charge of finding out how to get marijuana from the college-age stage hands. After that first week of making out behind the sets, he only called me once, and that pattern continued: once a year. Because, like some fabled creature reborn under magical conditions, or a plant that blooms only when two blue moons follow each other, this attraction renewed itself every year. For 6 years. We made out behind sets, found unused rooms with broken pianos in the fine arts center, until I graduated from high school–and then I was a counselor, attending the college where the camp was held, which meant I knew more unused rooms, more places dark and intimate. Old enough to question everything, I accepted, without question, that while everything else was up for intellectual grabs, this was fate. Even if he never wrote me, never called me, I was going to suffer and wait it out. Until he was . . . old enough?

Real relationships in college came and went.  Once, I hurt a friend who’d come to love me, after a week of camp counseling with me.  At the camp dance, after a week of me trying to push down my feelings, push the love away, “These Arms of Mine” came on, and the boy walked across the room, took my hand, and pulled me into a slow dance.  The other campers, the counselors, looked on confused, disturbed.  I suppose.  I was so deep inside that moment that the edges beyond our locked eyes are barely there.  Afterwards, my friend sat with me outside the campers’ dorms, my young love somewhere inside, and we stared at the moon, unable to look at each other.  “You NEVER look at me the way you look at that kid,” he spat.  I looked on at the moon, wishing it could speak.

Its highest point was followed, quickly, by its lowest point, when he sat me down with the fact that there was no future for this strange, passionate thing that seemed like fate, or maybe love. And so, I set myself to the task of undoing my naive beliefs about love and fate and, for awhile, the meaning of life. It took a few years.

We finally did reconnect, after 11 years, and while we still aren’t actively close, I find his presence in my life adds a depth and richness akin to that of a childhood friend, a cherished family member who lives far away. He’s still never made me a CD or tape, never writes me a letter, and the only picture I have of him is the double another counselor gave me of him with another girl.

That is why this song, a slow dance I can still feel 22 years later, holds a weight in my heart so heavy that if my heart was an ocean, which I sometimes believe it is, this love would be anchored to its very floor. It’s the only thing I feel like I really have from him. He even goes by a different name these days, but he, too, has said when he hears this song come on in a bar, he is lost in that moment with me, once again that boy I know now I really loved.

Jingle Bells: An Elegy

It starts because we both think my unpredictability has become predictable. He finds it hilarious. I look up in the middle of reading to do it, stop stirring risotto or petting the cat and turn to him. “Hey, Eli,” I say, “Name that tune.” Without breaking eye contact, I begin to tap on his arm. Dat dat daaaa dat dat daaaa da dat da da daaa. “Jingle bells!” he says, breaking into a smile. It is always “Jingle Bells.”

Once a year, over our three and a half year relationship, it will be the first act of the Nutcracker Suite. But usually it is “Jingle Bells.” And it becomes one of our favorite things about each other: this game that pretends to offer surprise, that requires close attention to the message being tapped, like Morse code, onto the other’s body, when, in actuality, we know it is a ritual communicating our certainty of each other, a sly wink to the other in the face of the unknown. “I know where this is going, but I will pretend I don’t,” his eyes smile at mine. “And when it goes there, we will have gone there together.”

I decide it will be our first dance at our wedding.

I imagine his delight as I announce, in a beautiful, creamy dress, a glass of champagne in my hand, that I have chosen a very special song for this first dance, and the song begins—Bing Crosby’s version, or maybe that of Sammy Davis, Jr. He laughs as I prance towards him, and we join hands. We swirl in a big circle, enclosed inside arms and an inside joke.

But there is no wedding because I’ve been playing the wrong game. That’s not what love is–there should be no games, I know. Except that there are, and it is a game in and of itself to pretend there aren’t.

There are games of strategy, which I attempted to avoid, the more it became clear that he really didn’t want to get married—the kind that drive you to read articles titled things like “How to Get Him to Move In with You” or “How to Tell If He’s Never Going to Be Ready.”

There are board games, structured as the weeks you spend together: pick up your piece and go to the farmers’ market; buy a half-flat of raspberries for half-price (bonus points). Proceed to Monday, Tuesday, your weekly viewing of “How I Met Your Mother” (watched late because of band practice). Thursday—Standing Date with Friends (overdid the drinking again! Lose one turn).

There are games of chance (“We’re at the P.I.–join us for a drink, if you’re on your way home!”) and team challenges and individual foot races. There are mind games, but these are be benevolent, recast as “relationship discussions,” in which I sit on the couch beside you, the cat sleeping behind our heads, and love you as you try to come up with something, anything, to explain why you are not ready to want this life you have built with me. I turn this game on myself: this is not about me, this love is worth more than your pride, Bryn, not everyone is as quick with words as you are.

There are rules of engagement, but the engagement never happens. He tells me that at some point, he felt like we stopped being on the same team. I look at our life for the evidence of this: his anticipation that I will want the flour back on my side of the counter as we cook, my ability to pick which restaurant we should go to during Restaurant Week by the lack of nuts on the menu, the sand squirrel he made me on Ruby Beach, the book I bought him this Christmas on how to draw a chicken. Even when I think of the couch discussions, I think of holding his hand and thinking, “This is what love is.”

There were different teams? When had the game changed? What was the game changer, when marriage, maybe a baby, seemed only like extensions of the game we were playing together, the one I called “We’re So Lucky”?

Our relationship did not “move forward,” but the movements I miss now are these: the whirling in the kitchen, as I grabbed him for “Surprise Dance,” the intuitive rearrangement of limbs as one person turns on their side in sleep, the tapping of my fingers to a tune that will not be guessed, a tune tapped, now, on air.