pigeon

You almost married THAT?

A human being is a phenomenon, as much so as any hurricane, meteor shower, northern lights, or bowel movement. So when Ffion asked me in dismay, “You almost married THAT?”, she wasn’t objectifying or dehumanizing my ex-girlfriend. She had, I suppose, just looked at her experience so far of who I was, how I seemed to be around people, and then looked at how Glim was, and couldn’t quite make it make sense.

It was less, “Oh my god, your ex is fucking crazy!” and more “Oh my god, what a relief, we can laugh now because you made it out alive!” And in reality, it was probably more like “Don’t worry, I’m not going to be like that with you,” and in actual reality it was probably more like “Yeah you’re cute and all, but if I ever get like that about anybody, you or anybody else, just fucking shoot me.”

Ffion had a good head on her shoulders. It’s too bad I ended up being aloof and withdrawn around her when what she really deserved was a clean, wholesome goodbye. We had some good times before I left Missouri for Seattle though, and I hope she thinks so, too, despite my selfish avoidance.

What Glim had done that was so comically tragic was to have a meltdown in the middle of a creek bed and wail for help like someone who was legitimately lost in the wilderness and about to be devoured by giant carnivorous squirrels. This was about a half hour or so after she had struck out on her own in a huff, obviously because I was with Ffion now and not with her, but ostensibly for some other reason, who knows what. All Cael, Ffion, and I heard was the unmistakable keening of a damsel in distress, floating across the treetops to the sycamore-studded swimming hole we were still lounging around in.

Cael and I loved nothing more than a fairy tale cliché, so we leapt up.

“Did you hear that?”

“It sounds like someone needs help!”

We honestly (I think) didn’t realize it was Glim. Shirtless and possibly even shoeless, we bolted upstream, hopping from gravel bed to tree trunk, racing round bend after bend of Turkey Creek, following the desperate cries, on our way to save the day. Ffion strolled along at a leisurely pace behind us — I assume — I hope — rolling her eyes.

When finally we caught up to the source of the SOS, a gesture up the forested slope in the general direction of the parking lot was the extent of the heroics required. Oh well, we were there and ready — we coulda done something perilous and swashbuckling, you know, had the need arisen.

Well, I guess we all made it out alive. Probably went somewhere to eat. Probably Mixed Company for nachos on credit. (Thanks, Gail!) You know, if I had married THAT, there’s no way it could have worked out worse than my actual marriage did. That’s not to say it would have worked out well, of course.

Whatever, I’m just rambling now. Feels good to dip back into this little blog project, though. I gotta always have at least two projects, or else neither of ’em stays working for long. Right now the project that complements this one is called “every page is page 192.” It’s kind of a Quantum Leap ripoff for verbal nonsense. It’s written in invisible ink.

I miss the woods. I miss the creeks and the creek beds. I was listening to Gil’s “year-end audit” podcast episode, thinking about how to classify and qualify what I really need to change, like, the real stuff, not just the cosmetic stuff, the stuff where you have to answer the question “What are you willing to do differently,” and I had to laugh ’cuz essentially it boiled down to “work, love, and money.” It’s not complicated; it’s the same stuff everybody needs to work on. Somewhere in the deck I have a pigeon about the manager of the bookstore I used to work at, in the 90s. When I told her I was seeing a therapist, she said, “Isn’t it nice to realize you’re not special?” I didn’t get it at all, at the time, in fact I was somehow weirdly offended. But I totally get it now.

Happy new year, y’all. Next time you need help, histrionically or otherwise, may you be dashingly rescued by a self-centered but charmingly quasi-poetic twink and a buff pseudo-spiritual post-hippie orphan. Or, you know, by whoever happens to be nearby and available at the time.

Love you, Ffion. Love you, Cael. Love you, Glim. Love you. Love you all.