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Friday, April 18th, 2003
1:37 am - Don't Listen to Sigur Ros' "Svefn-G-Englar" when in this position...

There are plenty of GOOD men out there.

Like me, the kind of good man who ends up going out to their ex girl friends opening photo show in The East Village, knowing quite well that her new boy friend from over sea's will be there, and think they will handle it well. Sort of. The kind of good man that gets nauseous when they are walking toward the building. Beginning to shake - and feel awful - and terrified. The kind of good man who paces around outside, worried about what they may see inside. It's freezing outside, but it's sure to be colder inside. They build up what courage they can muster. They are already 15 minutes late due to anxiety. So they enter, with aching muscles, dried mouth, shivering, and a runny nose, and begin drinking to lighten up on emotions. They wander the room, almost ready to collapse. Scared, nervous, sick. Unhappy.

She's no where in sight, yet.

The kind of good man who wanders the first floor, hoping to find his courage lurking somewhere in a dark corner, that he can wrap himself up in, like a cloak. He buys his favorate drink, a whiskey sour and begins drinking it. Trying to smother the fear. And then makes his way downstairs, comforted in his cloak, and the alcohol working it's way into him, before bumping into her friend and acting like everything is cool. Cause you are the man. You can't let people know you are having a breakdown over a lost love.

Lost for good (lost for worse).

The kind of good man that finally brings himself to go down to the second floor music stage - and appreciates it none the less. And wanders the dark floor. And begins to get nervous again about the encounter. And orders one more drink to ease the strenuous tension that continues to tighten inside his soft belly.

A door opens out of nowhere that gives birth to a thick shaft of warm glowing light, pouring into the dark room you are in. You are drawn to the light, to the warmth.

A man who steps foot inside a red room, filled with art work. Peoples art work. Her art work. But not her. You glide, because you can't feel your legs, towards old familiar visions. Visions of her home. Visions of upstate NY. Visions of a place you had once been. Visions of a previous life. Visions of work you had helped with. Visions of staying up all night helping her with her computer and printer. Visions of falling asleep together in her living room after many unsucsesfull attempts. Her work looks good.

"How am I gonna stand when I see her? Should I lean? I feel sick. How do I look her new man in the eye!?!?! I can't do it. I am not ready yet." And when you least expect it, still completely unsure of yourself; your looks, your emotions - she enters. And she looks so pretty - and her boy friend isn't there. Did he go back to Germany? And you hug her, and she feels so good, the way you remembed her - and her smell and the feeling of her skin. And her lips kissing you on your cheek. Lips you want to kiss again. The blue of her eyes you want to drown in. And you feel silly for having the feelings you did. Things seem OK.


And then from behind... THE FUCKING MAN!! I HATE FUCKING MEN!!! WITH THEIR UGLY ASS MAN BODIES, AND BEING ALL MAN LIKE, AND LOOKING ALL, LIKE, MAN... showing up. And you think, under your increasing heart rate and breathing, and spliting, aching heart, that you can handle it. But you find yourself stabbing yourself in the hand with a pin you find on the floor, because you hope the pain from that will overpower the emotional pain from this new man, her new man, staring at you. I can't look. Poke harder.

And then you feel yourself choke up. And you NEVER cry in public. What to do? She has gone to get drinks. To socialize. To be a polite person. You quicky turn towards a corner, facing a photo. You can hear his voice in the background. Your ugly reality lurks just over your shoulder. You can make it through this. Let this feeling die down. Relax. Relax. Relax. But you don't relax, because you can't relax. Not with this in your face, behind your back. You look up, only to see that you are standing in front of one of her photos. It's more than you can handle. You feel your eyes begin to well up, fast.

You run to another room that you discover is actually outdoors. And you begin to cry, in public... a man in public crying... and you discover mucus pouring down you're nose, down your face... and your heart feels empty, and still, and you can't breath, and can't see out of your tear filled eyes. And all these people outside see you. And they don't know what to think, so they part out of your way. And you stumble to the end of the path.

You decide to try and repress the tears, and call your best friend - but as the phone rings, you feel yourself choke up more, until you can't even talk right. It's fucking cold out. And they answer, and you try to ask them what's up, and ask them what they are doing - but you just begin crying, and bumping your head against the locked metal door in front of you - you can hear the agony in your voice and he knows what's up.

You keep your eyes open towards the wind, trying to dry them. Your friend goes into story about his night, and it's somewhat amusing. You almost forget you are sad. You almost forget you have cold tears, running down your now red eyes, staining your cheeks. You begin talking about funny, immature things, like peeing.

And then... from behind you, she immerges. And you hang up the phone. And as warm as it feels whenever you see her - you are fucking embarrassed. Because you've only cried once in front of her a long time ago. And you realize you are crying at her opening show. And embarrassing her in front of her new boy friend and other friends. And then the thought of THAT makes you more upset. And anything you think of makes you more sad. And then she says it breaks her heart to see you like this - and that is even MORE FUCKING DEPRESSING! So you cry over that too.... Your face becomes a fountain of emotion. The mucus is flowing, and the heart is cold, dry and cracked. The tears are pouring uncontrollably and you can't breath, and you are dizzy - and all you want are for things to go back to the way they were.... and you can't hold your fucking head up to her, cause you're too embarrassed. And you want to hold her, but you can't. And then she brings her hand up to your face, like in a movie, and wipes mucus off your nose with her bare hand... because she doesn't care if your mucus touches her skin... we're way past that. "Cooties" don't matter. She used to do it all the time - when you were together. It's a far more meaningful connection - but she also doesn't love you like that anymore.

And you wanna vomit.

And she asks if she should call you a cab - but you feel like a moron if you did that. So you walk home instead, and cry all the way back - not giving a shit what people think . Not even that cute girl on the corner. She's not that cute tonight because you don't care for her at all. You care for June... because you still love her, and she was the best thing to ever happen to you. And the site of her with someone else eats you painfully from the inside. You unsuspectingly tear at your skin with week long fingernails. And no matter what else you think, it JUST MAKES MATTERS WORSE.

And it's freezing out. and you have to pee. And you are tearing. Mucus flowing out your nose - with no caring woman to wipe it for you. And you are sick, and you hate her new boy friend. And you hate yourself, and you hate where you are. But you don't hate her. You will never hate her. You CAN'T hate her, ever.

The walk home seems to take forever. Everyone who passes you looks you in your eyes, the eyes that have seen a thousand sweet expressions on her face - expressions now relived by a whole new person. Someone that will no doubt keep her happy. Someone that was the life of the party. Someone that she can talk to, and cry on their shoulder to. Someone who you used to be. Someone who you aren't, anymore. Someone you can't be ever again.

But he hasn't got anything on you in the massaging corner.

By the time you get home you remember how the year before, in her apartment, you slept next to her, cuddled in the same bed, under the grate on 22nd and Park Ave, looking up at people's feet walking above, whispering to her about how you would be there when she got her first show, and how you would show her off to everyone, and brag to your friends about what an amazing girl you have. And how proud and lucky you were to be with her. All the while, running soft fingertips along her arm, and her back. You memorized every gorgeous freckle on her body.

Reliving those memories, you pull at your hair. And you ball your eyes out at the thought that someone else is in your place, beginning where you left off. And you cry, and cry when you think that YOU cried during her photo opening, and ruined the show for her - and you wanna change that. And you can't. And you hate life. You hate where you are - you hate everything. And you can't change a fucking thing.

And why aren't your tears turning to salty icicles?

And life goes on... life goes on... life goes on. You struggle to keep up, to stay on top - but you can't foresee these things. You try, but you can't, and life goes on. And I'm going to drown myself deeper and deeper until I can't see, or hear the surface anymore. No sounds, no smells, no taste, no texture, and no sights. Just black, quiet emptiness.

I gotta get through this... I won't get through this... I gotta... I wont. I wont. I wont.

June And I, Early 2002, NYC - Webster Hall Photo Booth

note: this was written the night I got home from the event.

Update to this story, here

current mood: depressed

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