I don’t know why I wanted it so badly. I embraced him, not sure if I could let go. Ducking in my car I was thankful for the predawn shadows that hid my quivering lips. Driving up this time felt like a breeze. I bought The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd on CD. It lasted the full ten hours. Having it read to me was strange; the characters seemed altogether too pretentious at times. But I was reminded of how much that book moved me. How everything in it seemed to reach out from the pages and gently caress the cheek of my face. There’s a part in the book when a kiss is described exactly as a kiss should be described, but for some reason I had the faintest clue what it was talking about. Like I had never had the privilege of being kissed, or being kissed like that. I longed for it immensely. I wondered if the lack of this intimacy that used to be such an important feature in my life, an integral part of relationships in my mind, had caused me to get caught up, as if my sweater had been snagged on the handle of the door to comfortableness and the real me. For a while I pondered the idea, curious as to why this was so incredibly lacking, I wondered if my patience would eventually run out waiting for something I conceive to be simple and completely natural. I’ve just about given up on it happening, even though I’ve expressed it to be a desire. However as I drove along the 101 for the zillionth time, I wondered if later a red car might come up this road one day. I’ve been let down so many times with false promises of visits; I never let my mind wander to far down the path of excitement. However at this conjunction I wanted desperately to write out the path to get to Humboldt, how I have always driven it, with all its quirky landmarks and hickish towns. I considered a while if giving this hopefully entertaining tour guide to him would even really matter to him at all. I had a feeling he might disregard it. I wondered if any of my opinions or desires or efforts were ever taken seriously or even listened to in the first place. I had a sickish feeling right then, the kind I get where I’m wondering if I’m fooling myself, and telling myself he loves me, when in fact he doesn’t. Of course it’s preposterous, I know he does, I thought to myself almost completely reassuringly.
Sometimes I feel half dead. As if I haven’t lived in years. “Didn’t those books come out like years ago?” “Yeah I used to read before I dated boys, then again in between them.” Or something like that is how the conversation went. I’ve always said books were my first lovers, taught me how to live how to breathe. I don’t even really connect to books the same way anymore. It’s like a really powerful one is the only thing that will get through to me anymore. But besides all that, I feel like I’m numb a lot of times. As if I can never let it all in again, as if everyday my emotions and passions are shut down, or laughed at, or are just simply slipping away from me. In fact I know I don’t feel as strongly about anything the way I used to. Even when I was thoroughly depressed, it still didn’t affect me like old times. But that maybe because I was genuinely depressed, in which no ounce of beauty could pull me back from the depths. Before, a simple sunset could push me between extreme joy and longing all at once. Perhaps it’s because I’m out of the awkward raging hormonal years, perhaps it’s because I’ve stopped reading, perhaps it’s because priorities in my life have been rearranged over the years.
In the car I crossed the golden gate bridge, it’s red cables set against the grey ocean, blue sky and green hills of Marin County. I grew slightly anxious. The fading light played tricks on me. I realized I loved Humboldt, but my heart lay with the ocean, and the flat dry vastness of an arid landscape, the southwest. It dawned on me how much twilight seemed to send a strange sort of panic up my spine while I twisted my way past signs that said “ICY” and the thousands of towering trees looking down upon me without a care I existed. As I heard the words read from the book, the ones I had read only a few years earlier, I realized how much I related to this character. Who only ever wanted to be loved, and to know it unconditionally, and to be reassured that she was even wanted. Not to mention the philosophies beat together with my heart.
Now comes a long wait, a drawn out, hard to do battle with staying steady and on course I thought to myself this morning. I latched on for what seemed like dear life. His body was heavy next to mine, like stone. His sleep was just as heavy; he could have been dead, except he was warm and breathing deeply. With futile effort I peered into the future, trying to see if things would be all right. With subtle frustration I got no answers, so I tried to look farther, all the way to summer and fall. But to no avail, all I could see were my hopes, standing precariously on icebergs. He was included of course, and it occurred to me that I didn’t really care where I was just as long as he was there in some fashion. I wondered if I just didn’t want to be alone. A lot of times I’m dying to know what he is thinking about, do any of our thoughts cross paths? My car was frosted over in the cold Westlake morning. I wanted it so badly right then, but I the incredible urge to hold back pulled me down again, like I was wading into a river with rocks in my pockets. Just wait a little bit longer, maybe he’ll do it on his own.
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