The Nubivagrant

Do I still have access to my words?

Is there language behind the locked doors?  Can we do a long post tonight and keep, ahem, our word?

Highs and lows.  Zeniths and nadirs.

I should have been reporting on his every breath in my ear.  I should have been mentioning how I thrill when the phone rings.  How casually and simply he’s folded himself into my life.

Not that it’s over.  Not that it’s stopping.  It’s just that if it were last year, I’d have that documentation.  But I suppose that perhaps there was no room for the time to noodle anymore and make the achievement of this connection, limited as it is, as unbound as it is, or so it seems, simultaneously.  Too much.  So I have opted, instead, to try and learn the new job and learn the new job of caring for someone who…to encourage roots and life and photosynthesis, needs a lot of light.  Needs a song and nitrogen and compost and effort.

I am aware of how much he needs versus, perhaps, what the old wives’ tales would insist a man requires.  And what his case changes for us.  Right now the mantra is, just to get in a room with him, just to make the chemicals collide before I try and dance off into the realities that being together is so…challenging.   Because there’s so much baggage and intrigue and flotsam and jetsam and barriers to moving forward that it might not be possible.  I’m allowing that thought to exist just so that I don’t plummet through the floorboards if it comes to pass that we stop this tomfoolery.  But it is…as far as I am given to know…not without potential.

Neither of us is in exactly cohesive shape and the pain and suffering that has been the only real backbone he’s known in life have stiffened up again and held him in one spot.  I don’t know that all my soft and kind words are getting in at all, though he makes a good play at returning these benevolent volleys as he may.  I’m concerned that for all my empathy, the gaps can’t be bridged, but when I mention something in the public square of the internet, he hears it.  He hears and does what he can to respond.  I appreciate that so much as we skulk with trepidation nearer and further and nearer yet again, that I am…not a figurehead for some other, better romance.  It is the only shape that we can make it and it is ours between us.

Just knowing that it is a romance is quite something.  There are characters, interlopers, more Heathcliff and Cathy than Jane and Rochester, but I don’t have to wonder if a touch of a hand, if a kind gesture and a shared joke add up to a higher regard.  Instead, he says I’m flirting with you.  To which it is very easy to reply, well, that’s good, because I am flirting with you.  Suddenly, you can find yourself leaps and bounds away from old places just because a thing has a name.  Still, it doesn’t correct everything, it doesn’t fix all the picture frames that have turned askew, but it makes me feel present and human and somewhere.

I don’t want to represent that this is a thing I have the power to preserve.  It has a  life of its own independent of both of us. Or a thing that is destiny-based.  I stumble into things and can’t have an allusion that all of them are the single intended path. But some mornings I’m hopeful that we can keep.. finding some joy in one another. Others I wonder if his internal wounds and my absence of self-worth are just too hard a fucking combination to elevate into something of permanence.  :::shrug:::

So that is the completely confusing status of that.

What I do want to record for posterity is the baseball game we went to today that delighted my father.  My sister drank and told me how she saw the world (in a very saccharine, but legitimate sort of way) and attempted to convince me to go with them to New York.  My other sister was afforded a moment to be quiet and still.  My sister’s boyfriend was here and then briefly in some other place the rest of us will never know.  My mother ate an enormous hot dog after a big lunch and I have to be reminded about the cancer only later.  I had panic, but it didn’t destroy me.  I broadcast my car ride home accidentally to a couple of strange men via the power of Facebook.

And tomorrow – we work.

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