lies is
love is not
i maintain
that love by deceiving is poetry
between the kiss and confession lies reality
lies, reality
nearly blinding and convincing
before love and binding is silence
blind and naked
there i undress
here made to stand strangled
laughing
upon his hand
this ignorance made with color
sworn to say bliss
but not believing it
Unknowingly the day after you died, I sent you a text message wishing you luck on the LSAT.
I now realize that I was talking to a ghost.
This morning I woke up wanting to punch the universe in the face over and over and over again until it shouted back in submission, “Okay, okay! Enough! You can have him back!”
While I fight the urge to face the truth that this will never happen with anguish and uncertainty, I muster up the best in myself, tapping into that subterranean well that lies within all of us, and embrace it with the warmth and authenticity you approached your life with every day and remember you.
You.
My friend.
It hurts, but I slip loose the knots of the unthinkable and begin to remember you, though it’s a challenge because for me, you are still not gone.
And though you would be embarrassed to read this, you would never say.
Taking a page out of the book of jwc, I’ll do it anyway.
You always made me smile. Those remarkable blue eyes and snarky laugh. Your love of talking about Hesse, Vonnegut, and Salinger into the long hours of the night, ignoring my yawns and lazy responses. Your heartbreakingly honest confessions of a deep regret for past mistakes. The way you always gave my boyfriends unsavory nicknames and scoffed at my attempts to defend their honor. Your insatiable love of bucking tradition and blazing your own rebellious trail. The practical jokes. Your knack for passing out at the most inopportune moments. How you never forgot to ask about my parents, even across the distance of continents and the passing of months, years. Similarly, how time always managed to stand still for us until the next time we saw each other, picking up right where we left off, never missing a beat. A true rarity in friendships these days. I remember the impressive depths of your mind and staggering intelligence and how easy the sharing of profound thoughts was with you. I don't know if that type of comfortability came along simply with the sheer number of years I have known you (23 years to be exact), or if it was just always you. I think the latter. Because I like to think you served this purpose for many people. I was always Megs, not Megan, or Meg. You always called. “Clear your calendar” you would say, and nothing else. Leaving the details of your visits a mystery until I would hear your familiar voice on the other end of the phone telling me to “Save you a bar stool”. How you had this consistent lack of direction in life, but were always so unabashed about admitting it. It was endearing. And you were charming. Parents loved you. Teachers didn’t know what to do with you. You were silly and quick-witted; the biggest smartass I know. In friendships you were not fastidious, preferring to scatter your companionship out to every kind of person, but save the good stuff for a few. You fought wars and claimed conservatism, but you were a hippie at heart. You were a hero. And a patriot. I always hated arguing with you because you had this unbelievable knack for being right that only really, really gifted people possess. You were clever. You were authentic. You were an original. You were a good friend. You were my friend.
A few weeks before you passed, we spent one crazy night in Chicago together. Speeding through downtown streets, up until dawn, smoking cigarettes and laughing off old high school memories. We talked briefly about “over there”, but I know you preferred to speak less about the past and more about the future. I didn’t press you, but you said, “One day you’ll write it for me.”
You always supported my writing. So now I’m writing this for you.
Its unfair and I’m sad and angry and confused and I don’t know how I’m going to deal with knowing I will never see you again, but I will never forget you. I know that. And I will never let anyone else forget you. And by writing this, I honor the memory of you.
I will be kinder to strangers. Better to myself. More honest in my relationships. Stronger in my convictions. I will write more. And write better. I will do this moving forward because the only way I know how to honor you is to be a better me. And I’ll always be grateful when I wake up in the morning and know that that first smile that hides inside the pockets of each day belongs to you.
And tomorrow, when I throw my arms around the memory of you, I will never stop holding tight. And I promise you, I won’t weep for your death, but I will celebrate your life.
I will always, always love you.
Justin Wesley Cloe
August 2, 1980 – June 5, 2010
Can I get a moving walkway for all this emotional baggage?
I'm tired of carrying it around. Or better yet, make like a real airport and lose it. Drop it in the middle of Lake Michigan or the Bermuda Triangle. Leave its contents to be pulled and plucked at by the curious lips of strange ocean fish.
If that doesn't work, let's strap it haphazardly to the roof of some suburban mini-van and see how far we can get. Somewhere along the curves and bends of some lonely interstate highway I'll smile as it topples over the side, following the passing of an eighteen wheeler.
I'm free.
They'll flutter out of the open suitcase as it lies agape by the side of the road, like a giant face caught in a yawn. Moments, like shredded newspaper ads, litter the azure sky, the road, the windshields of cars. Travelers switch their wipers to "On", unaware of what they are brushing away.
As we speed further down the road, the wrinkles of my mind ease and slacken, spreading my memory out flat. I hold in a sigh. I let out a grin.
Miles behind, caught in between the blades of a beat-up Toyota is the memory of us.
And with a casual sweep, it's gone.
Lately I have been searching for something without a name. I follow it and it chases me. I hide and it finds me. It reels me in and spits me out a different person everyday. What I am with you now is not who I have been. I have to look into the mirror to remember that I’m not someone else. To remember that I’m not that impulsive, passionate, irrational, glowing face I see staring back at me.
I’m not that. But I chase it. I see you in the wake of it, casually begging me to catch up. Your nonchalance about this Jekyll and Hyde within me makes me want to keep up with you even more, prove to you that I am what I see in the mirror when I don’t recognize myself. Knowing you makes that seems attainable and inescapable all at once.
It’s not something that I embrace heedlessly. Most of the time it jumps up from behind or out from murky blue-gray shadows on horribly lit streets or I see it when nothing’s there at all. It’s something I have created that you have control over. It’s a prison with no bars that I sit in willingly and without cause.
I am disenchanted and I don’t care. It’s something, really. To walk around in a dream all the time, not knowing which person I am, torn between who I am with you and who I am with someone else. And it’s silly to think I can remain both.
"We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."
From Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman
I don’t want to be just another moment in your history. Just another book on the shelf of your infinite library. The song on your iTunes playlist that you loved hard for three weeks straight and now just skip through to the next.
I don’t want to be the water that cuts so easily under your oars as you paddle away.
Because you made me believe less in me and you and more in us and we and now I can’t go back. I shed the impermeable layer that initially kept me from letting you in and now I can’t stop absorbing you. All that energy I didn’t put into us I’m now taking in, radioactive with remorse. And at times I feel as though I might burst with all these emotions I worked so circumspectly to train to roll right off, not in.
You brought truth to me in a way I was not ready to reciprocate. Part of me always thought there would be a runner in this story, but I had no idea your gym shoes would be so effortlessly laced by the time I realized it wasn't me.
By the time I realized this wasn't what I wanted, you had already cut a path through the trees and I could barely make out your dizzying shadow.
You gave me no choice in loving you and now you leave me nothing but to trace and retrace the the outline of your footsteps in the soil, still warm with the heat of you.
Lately I have been propping up my smile with the ghosts of memories past.
This smile is a counterfeit though, forged with regret that slumps my shoulders and pulls the corners of my mouth down with defeat.
And I think to myself, "This should be easier the second time around."
My poor heart has only recently adjusted to being whole again.
But I'll trudge on, soldiering through the muck yet again; this time trying to avoid the muddy footprints of my past mistakes.
It's like being ripped from a blank canvas into a Matisse. Each moment with you painting a brighter, bolder stroke than the next. Every color moving something deeper inside me. Its composition, staggering.
It's always been beautiful and messy and vaguely familiar, but this time its painting me from the inside out in ways I cannot hide. I'm slinging magenta from my fingertips.
In the end though I'm not sure if what we have created is a masterpiece or a reprint of the same original.
And that thought is not a happy one for a starving artist like me.
In honor of Valentine's Day this year, I entered this contest online. You basically tell the story about how you and your current love met and onces it is approved and posted online, the person with the most votes wins!
To read and vote for my love story, click on this link: www.mariosenchantedevening.com/story.php?ID=143.
Some of you may recognize this from a post I previously wrote before the new year. I have to say, it was a challenge to cut a 900 word post to 150 words! To read the full post, click this link: http://hellafied.blogspot.com/2008/10/part-three-state-of-megan.html.
I need your help! Please vote for me! :)
*Big wet sloppy smooch*
Across a smoky, crowded bar you shouted that I broke your heart. I yelled something back equally sad and hurtful, maybe even found my hands reaching toward your chest to push you away. Over and over we recall the tragic story of us, like the drone of the indifferent voice coming out of a dead telephone line, "...If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again..."
Because in my head there's an airport terminal that flies away those dangerous thoughts every hour on the hour. Off to destinations more habitable. Cruising at thirty-five thousand feet through the mist and fog are those unsettling thoughts. Those tempting notions that someday we'll finally forgive each other for this scar, that wound, those heartbreaks. That we will one day stop fighting the pull of something we can't control.
And I count on it every night, that vital red eye.
Because I know that on my own, I won't be able to hang up that telephone.
Love.
*Erase period. Type new statement*
Love...
“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.”
Today, filled with it. To the brim.
I've chosen to update you today on the state of my love life.
This is actually the first time I've ever "directly" addressed it in my blog. Over a decade spent with someone else and not even a single mention of his name on here. I understand now that my choice to keep his anonymity was just my own uncertainty about him realized.
For many of you who have been following me since my Xanga days, you know that I don't get too specific about this topic, but when I'm sad, it shows. And I've been sad for too long.
You have seen me through the ups and downs, been through moments where I've teetered on the edge of heartbreak, been through moments where I ran full speed into it. You've breathed faith into my crumpled heart, inflating it until I thought it would burst with hope.
You've forced me to take a good hard look at myself, readers. And for once, I'm liking what I see.
As I've said before, I look at relationships differently than I did three years ago, a year ago, hell a month ago. It's like I've taken a baseball bat and swung blindly, shattering the perfect snow globe into millions of little pieces, exposing what's really inside; two dimensional people forced to stand in front of a fake background for eternity. Meanwhile trying to weather the storm each time life decides to flip you upside down and shake.
It turns out, you better really like who's in there with you.
And finally, FINALLY I do.
No, not "I do" in that way. Sheesh. Let's not get carried away.
I've just decided not to settle down or for anything less. That I'm not perfect, but I'm not sure that's what I'm looking for anymore. And I think I may have finally found someone that thinks imperfection is as great as I do. Flaws? What flaws? He sees the best in me and because of him when I look in the mirror every morning, I see the best in myself.
So here it is, anonymity, be damned.
His name is Ryan.
He is (was) my next door neighbor.
I met him coming out of my apartment at the same time he was. It was deliciously movie scripted at first. You know, the classic "girl moves into apartment building, finds out she has a cute neighbor, cue random run-ins, flustered conversations, dropping of mail, struggling with keys" scenarios.
The only thing is, I was still set on the storybook ending for my current disaster (to my credit, it didn't feel like a disaster at the time, I was still hopeful) of a relationship with my ex of six years. I mean, I know I've abstractly written about it here, but he was literally MY LIFE. I ate, breathed and lived that guy for like a decade. He was all I knew. I'm still unsure the book is closed on that one, to be completely honest. He was my first love. My big love. The love that stops time while you mourn your break-up for THREE YEARS.
Three and half years I refused to become un-single. I didn't want to find someone else. I wasn't looking. Honestly, my heart was unavailable.
When neighbor and I met, I really, really truly didn't have a care for him. No inkling, no spark, no hunch, feeling, idea, notion.
Of love.
None.
I know that the thought of making it work with the ex consumed me. I know his voice on the other end of the phone, at my front door intercom at 3 a.m. felt like home to me. I know I couldn't see who and what that was turning me into until one day I just did.
Clarity of scope always comes too late.
But at least it came. And once I decided to let him in (figuratively AND literally) neighbor was relentless. He pursued me. It made me uncomfortable. It made me wonder what was wrong with him. I told him time after time that I was a mess, that he didn't want to date me, that I would only break his heart. I tried to convince him that I was crazy. That he would eventually tire of my manipulations and slink away, defeated. I closed doors in his face. Scoffed at his emails. Mocked his pursuit.
And yet he still tried to persuade me to give him a chance.
And then all of the sudden it was New Year's Eve at midnight and there he stood in his tuxedo across the room. Champagne spraying everywhere, people packed wall to wall into our apartments singing Auld Lang Syne. I looked at him, brimming with potential and promise, earnest and expectant, smiling at me as if he already knew I was his.
And that was the moment people. One for the ages. One good enough for all the writers in Hollywood.
That was it.
Now I'm the lucky one. For so many reasons.
He offered me partnership. Finally a street big enough for two people to walk down. For once, I am the girl on top of the pedestal, not the one trying to climb up it. All of those fears and hesitations I attached to relationships were curiously absent with him. I realized what I had been subsisting on for years and years were scraps not good enough for even the strayest of dogs. Words I wrestled with saying to someone else before were at long last easy to say. The poetry in my heart, safe.
And that my friends, is one hell of an update.
I told you I was going to take care of you, and I am a woman of my word so here I am. I think you deserve a massive update.
Last night I was in the suburbs taking care of these two little monsters.
It really made me realize how fortunate I am to have such a wonderful family. Sure half the time we're dysfunctional and insane, but whose family isn't? I've shared a fantastic childhood, rich with family history and tradition. I have unbelievable Aunts and Uncles who spoiled us rotten when we were growing up. Thanks to them I know my heritage and recognize where I come from. Thanks to them my niece and nephew will never have to know anything but an outpouring of unconditional love and a genuine desire to be a part of their lives. To know who they are now and a wish to see who they become.
As I've mentioned before, I don't know if a family of my own is in the cards for me, but with the one I've already got, I'll never long for more.
I know you can't choose your family, and I'm okay with that because I am lucky enough to have gotten stuck with mine. 
I think about that a lot. Life would be a lot easier if you could choose who you love. Think about it. Instead of that sneaking, slow growing, smack you upside your head moment, it would be something you could control. Something that was accessible and convenient for you. What if we could pick out who we love from a line-up, like they do to perps in jail. Instead of holding up criminal numbers, they would hold up something like, "Is nice to his mom", or "Cries a lot" or "Will only break your heart". Imagine the possibilities.
I was just talking the other day with my friend Jackie about the roles different people play in our lives.
Laura is like a warm cup of tea on a cold afternoon, she just makes me feel at ease and comfortable. Laura knows the best and the worst of me and still loves me. She is my mama bear, always going to bat for me without even having to ask for her help.
Katie is a fiercely loyal friend. She's the one you call when you're all dressed up on a Friday night and your date never shows up. Even if she has been sleeping for hours, she will without hesitation, show up at your door when you need her.
Eleanor lets me be myself more than anyone, a true gift. She knows the words in my heart even when I don't speak them. She is endlessly generous and has shown me moments of kindness that inspire me to be a better person.
Ryan is my magic wand. He makes everyone else disappear. He's the hand that holds my own. He brought commitment to me, shoved it's rearing, ugly face into mine and said, "Don't run."
Dianka is a laugh just when I need it the most and brings excitement into my life. She is authentic and genuine and has taught me never to judge a book by its cover.
Dave is a kindred spirit, he understands things unsaid. He inspires me to have faith in other people and to never give up on true love.
Mel is my wise seer, someone who radiates strength into all she is around. Out of everyone, her words calm me the most. She is the most compassionate person I have ever met without a doubt. When she says "My heart aches for you, Meg" she truly means it.
Shannon is stability and honesty and always gives a genuine and warm hug.
Jess is my home away from home, even at 4,000 miles away. She gets it. She always has.
Donnelly makes me a better friend, effortlessly. Her friendship is as delightful as it is easy, a rare find. With her, there is no judgement, just unconditional love. And more importantly, unconditional fun.
Jill, Caroline and Jackie are my surrogate sisters, always hard at work, helping sort through the drama of my life and keeping me sane day to day. They are the rock I stand on to see above the waves.
And Kate, Kate is the other half of me. We still communicate in a language without words. We still have a relationship no one else can touch. She's the blood and I'm the heart. One doesn't work without the other.
All of these people help fill the holes in the respective puzzle of me, but there are little corners unoccupied even still. I feel like there are always spots left open, waiting, like a reserved parking space in a garage, left warm from the last car that it inhabited.
It would just be easier to choose who you love. Though I doubt it could be better.
Thank you, friends.
He is the hulking anchor to my wandering boat, always pulling the sea of possibilities to me when I would rather sail away.
He's the whisper at my shoulder in the middle of the night that turns the corners of my mouth up into a sleepy smile.
He's feverish and exacting with his saving of me. Calculating and determined in the wordless way he halts my uncertainty before it ever even reaches my lips.
His smile opens roses. My heart.
I am needed more than necessary and I like it.
He is the effortless to my demanding. Unruffled to my frenetic. Happy to my sad. Love to my lonely.
And he offered me no choice.
Dear BCBG,
Thank you for always being there for me. You have truly been the one consistent happiness in my life.
I remember when we had our first moment in college together. You were wedged between a Juicy tank and a hideous green Donna Karan halter at TJMaxx and I almost browsed
right past you. You were black and silky and mysterious and on sale. It was love at first sight.
Then again, at the Maz Azria store in Northbrook Court, shopping for a New Year's dress. I saw you in the window on a mannequin, swathed in a golden, glowing light. This time you were lavender and bubblegum pink, peppered with silvery sequins, in a soft jersey knit with a key hole halter strap. I whisked you off to the fitting room and we fell in love all over again.
Even during my hardest moments, like when I took a scissors to you the next New Year's, crying and cutting, I transformed you into something completely new and you stood by me. Making me look even better than a year ago in that Max Azria fitting room. You were with me during my own metamorphosis, urging me on, highlighting my great collarbone.
Almost always I run across you in the shoe section in a towering, sexy pink stiletto, with lace-like insets cut out on the sides. Or, in a casual tan and cream wedge, offering me a sensible but still fashionable alternative to high heels. You are more the perfect complement to me than any man could ever be.
And again, late last fall I found my fingers running over your heaven spun thread at Nordstrom Rack, in the form of a cream colored, off the shoulder, curve hugging cashmere sweater. With asymmetrical lines and sleeves that danced above my fingertips, you kept me warm and stylish through what seemed like the harshest of Chicago winters.
And now, you have fulfilled me yet again. Always consistent. Always even better than what I expect. You were waiting for me in the dress section of the BCBG Outlet, thirty percent off and screaming, "Wear me to your next wedding!" With your halter neck, deep V'ed empire waist, floor length and gorgeous navy color. We ambled off to the fitting room like old friends, not having seen each other in several months. Sigh. Another perfect fit.
Thank you BCBG. Thank you for making me feel beautiful in the midst of a lot of ugly clothes. Thank you for helping me make ex-boyfriends jealous and new boyfriends drool. Thank you for making my ass look good in jeans. Thank you for always showing up in a store window when you know I could use a friend.
Oh, and thank you Mastercard for making all of this possible.
Faithfully yours,
Megan
I go through these cycles of wanting to purge you from my head. It's a slipperly slope from my head to the keyboard and I'm through with keeping you from falling.
Lately I've been vascillating between opposites. Wrong and right. Idle and action. Love and hate.
I've realized that most of the time, life doesn't present us with one option or the other, but leaves us with a maddening gray area that I tend to spend most of my time fumbling around in.
And it's not fair. Because you see things in black and white and I know we may never understand each other.
Today I swallowed the ocean.
Choked it down until I could breathe again. Tears spilled down onto my clothes for all of those times I told myself I would not give in. But I do. I give in and I can't help it, but I'm not ruled by the same things as you are. This heart forces me to do things I don't want to. It stands at the helm, twisting and turning the wheel, sending me tumbling about below deck.
It's a difficult life this way, but there's nothing I can do about it.
I swallowed the ocean today and it had a bittersweet taste.
You will always be; something private. Like a whispered wish tumbling about the open sky among the dandelion seeds.
I'll stamp you out in heavy-handed periods at the end of each sentence I write. Like black flecks of snow falling delicately over everything I attempt before I crumple it up and toss it on the floor.
I've reclaimed ownership of my smile. You are no longer responsible for it.
Though I think I'll keep you close for a while. In towering, haphazardly stacked folders swept away from daily thought. I'll file our purest moments in places where I'll stumble across them unexpectedly. I'll label that folder, "Guilty Pleasures".
I will never find comfort in things crisp and new.
I'll leave us like a messy room behind a closed door. A masterpiece in its simplicity. A disaster in its own right. Maybe someday I will rewrite me out of it.
You will be for me, something wistful and cherished. The sudden escape of air as a heavy book is closed. Unnoticeable, yet overwhelmingly significant.
My heart keeps time with the rhythm of the words running through my head, "Don't be nervous, don't be nervous, don't be nervous." Like the annoying caw of a parakeet in a pet store.
But then I start to actually listen to the words in my head and my heart beats faster, "Don'tbenervous, don'tbenervous, don'tbenervous" making it all at once impossible to think clearly or breathe normally.
I'm inside my head almost all the time these days, holding my breath as I breaststroke through the muck to find something, anything, to steal my attention away from the anxious, insistent metronome ticking of my heart.
But you.
B u t y o u, b u t y o u, but you, butyoubutyoubutyou.
Damn it.
