Quotes, snippets, fragments … some of this I don’t remember at all … some is as vivid to me as a newsreel flickering of my own life before my own eyes … I never go thru old journals – except the old high school ones for Diary Friday, but yesterday I went through some of them from this crazy 3-month period in Chicago (or, I should say – one of MANY crazy 3 month periods in Chicago) – I wasn’t sure why I picked those particular journals out of the box, it was very random (seemingly) – but it soon became clear to me why those were the ones I chose to browse through. I was HOWLING with laughter at points, but … there was other stuff, too. Quiet, memories, the whole thing coming back to me. Deep in thought these days. I’ve got stuff to do. (Ann – some of this stuff was just making me GUFFAW.) <\/i><\/p>\n
\nJoe: “Member in Pulp Fiction –”
\nAnn: “No, see now, that was Sheila.”<\/p>\n
\n
Ann: “Is that the one where your hair is different?”
\nMe: “No, that’s your fantasy.”<\/p>\n
\nMe: “I’m just gonna be myself–”
\nAnn: “I think you should. Of course, if you need to be married<\/u> …”<\/p>\n
\nMe: “I think M. knew he could show up and I would let him know I wanted him to be there –”
\nAnn: “Or you’d blatantly ignore him like that night at the Wrigleyside.”<\/p>\n
\nFragments from M.’s improv show<\/u>
\n“Thank you, Gore Vidal.”<\/p>\n
“Gash – Like a Wound – is offended.”<\/p>\n
“I wish I was a deformed midget.<\/p>\n
\n1\/13\/95<\/u>
\nGuess who crash-bang-boomed back into my life this week? M. We’re quite a pair. I can’t discuss the chemistry anymore (but of course I still will) – but it just exists. We’re friends. M. is my friend. I really can see myself now paging him from a scary L platform somewhere and he’d come and save me. How do I BEGIN? Being with M. – after a year – is so familiar. It’s like my maroon sweater or something. Oh, who KNOWS. I adore him. Like this is a surprise. It’s a surprise to him, I think.<\/p>\n
\n
Mitchell: “Something has happened that I keep forgetting.”<\/p>\n
\nMe: “Isn’t it great that M. is back in my life?”
\nAnn: “I think it’s totally great, even though you know<\/u> this is only going to lead to haikus and humidifiers.”<\/p>\n
\n
Snippets from M.’s improv show<\/u>
\n“I usually save an extra seat for the Narrator.”<\/p>\n
Roy, the Idiot Man-Child from the Service Station<\/p>\n
“You’re not even a zoologist!”<\/p>\n
\n“Of course, we need to park on a street where there is a raging<\/u> fire.” – Me and Ann<\/p>\n
\nExchange between casting agent and M.<\/u>
\nCasting agent: “The character is constantly getting into situations he needs to get out of. He’s also a hopeless romantic. Do you think you can do that?”
\nM.: “I like acting.”<\/p>\n
\nM. to me, on that horrible night: “There are traction issues that you just can’t understand.”<\/p>\n
\nFragments – from M.’s improv show<\/u>
\n“Leave some room<\/u>, John!”<\/p>\n
“I like working with pigs!”<\/p>\n
“You’re gonna have to wear an eyepatch!”<\/p>\n
\nFrom Vindication<\/u>:
\nI have not the constitution, the education, the ability to concentrate. I fear for my sanity sometimes. There are days when I am on the edge of tears. Sometimes I am so restless I do not know what to do. Sometimes I can talk all night, like King George, you know. I am too, too happy, and in the same day I can be sad beyond hope. Sometimes teaching the girls is all I can do. Sometimes I am magnificent at it. Sometimes I do not know what to do with myself, my hands, my eyes. I want to fling myself down on the grass, embrace it, thank it, each little stem of it. I want a beautiful blue dress, shimmery, the color of the ocean. I want to be the ocean and the clouds. No, not the clouds, that is too far away.<\/p>\n
\n“Well, that will make you more three-dimensional.” – Me (weaving a web of lies with Ann Marie)<\/p>\n
\n“You sent the man 30 haikus. I don’t think he’ll mind if you come to a couple of his shows.” – Ann<\/p>\n
\nWe were all talking about what our “type” was. I had just come back from a weekend with M. I said, “My type of guy punctuates each sentence with a shot of Rumpelmans.”<\/p>\n
\nMe to M.: “I have a kinder-whore appeal … or at least so I’ve been told.”<\/p>\n
\nJoey, talking to the television, as we watched 30something: “These are nice people, Susannah. They want to like you because they love Garry.”<\/p>\n
\n
\nI’m forever under lock and key
\nAs you pass thru me<\/p>\n
\nM.: “There came a point when I was – whatever, it was clear to my parents that I had to be having sex by that time – I was 23, whatever – and my mom said something to me like, ‘Well, at least you’re not having sex,’ and I had to say, ‘Mom. Look, I’m having sex.’ and she said, ‘I’m glad you’re not having sex.’ Total denial<\/u>. She couldn’t even hear what I was saying. I think my mom could walk in on me actually having<\/u> sex, and she’d be like, ‘I’m so glad you’re studying!'”<\/p>\n
\nFrom the party 12\/10\/94<\/u>
\n“These Oreos are insanely<\/u> delicious.” – Joey<\/p>\n
“You just never know what will happen with broccoli.” – Me<\/p>\n
“I just kicked a pig.” – Ann<\/p>\n
Heard simultaneously by Ann:<\/u>
\nMe: (with a mouth full of food) “I have an eating disorder.”
\nMitchell: “I can honestly say I’ve never slept with —– oh, wait — yes, I have.”<\/p>\n
George and Ann, providing dialogue to an old movie, with the sound turned down<\/u>:
\nGeorge: “That’s why your dancing frustrates me – because I can’t move<\/u>!”
\nAnn: “Well, don’t you think I understand that? I mean, look at my eyebrows!”<\/p>\n
\nAnn: “I was thinking about your life the other day …”<\/p>\n
\n2\/20\/95
\nMe: Hi, honey.
\nM.: Hi, spanky.<\/p>\n
\nJackie: “The symptoms of this disease are: trouble with social skills …. long legs<\/u> … developing breasts as a man – and small tightly formed gonads.”<\/p>\n
\n2\/24\/95
\nM. calls my house – Jackie picks up.
\nJackie: “Hello. Tony’s Pizza Palace.”
\nM.: “I’d like a Sheila to go.”
\nJackie: “And what would you like on that?”
\nM.: “Nothing.”<\/p>\n
\n
\n2\/23\/95
\nMe: “I have my period.”
\nM.: “What else is new.”<\/p>\n
\nMe to M. (and I was dead serious): “It would totally not surprise me if I disappeared into a white slavery sex ring at some point.”<\/p>\n
\nMe to Mitchell (about M.): “Isn’t he so sweet?”
\nMitchell: “He is. He is sweet.” Long pause. “He’s a lunatic<\/u>.”<\/p>\n
\n
\nMitchell: “The improv jam is pushing all my buttons.”<\/p>\n
\nMitchell to me: “If you say ‘improv jam’ one more time, I’m going to scream at the top of my lungs.”<\/p>\n
\n
2\/26\/95
\nCrying in M.’s arms – it was, God, 3 am? I said later, “Sorry for crying like such a werewolf.” Not aware that werewolves were big criers. But anyway, I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t sadness, though. I had been so wound up for about a week, and then I relaxed with him, and started to cry, and then I couldn’t stop. For about an hour<\/u>. Poor man. I kept saying to him, “Don’t be scared – the tears are good tears … I’m happy … I’m so happy …” He had a cigarette dangling from his lips, he was holding me, and he said, drily, “I hope you don’t mind if I just take your word for it that you’re happy, okay? I mean, you’re fucking crying<\/u> …” “I’m just happy, M, I’m happy …” “Okay, okay, you’re happy. Christ.”<\/p>\n
\n
\n1\/13\/95
\n7 a.m. Jazz Bulls. The place closed its doors at 6 a.m. M. was working – so there was grey weird light seeping into the basement windows. Everything looked weird. Pre-dawn. It felt like we were the only 2 people on the earth. M. said, “You want some coffee before you go to work?” “You mean … go out?” I didn’t think there’d be time for that. He scoffed at the “out” question. “No – I can make you coffee here. You want some?” “God, yes.” I hoisted myself up onto the bar and sat there as M made a pot of coffee. His pants were totally ripped by that loony Christine bitch. I loved watching him shuffle around dealing with filters and coffee and water. He was adorable. All the while we were talking about us. I told him how comfortable I felt with him. At one point I fell into a depression, having to go to work after being up all night. I said, “I can’t believe I’m going to work right now.”<\/p>\n
He was standing with his back to me, pouring coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”<\/p>\n
“Just black. And strong. And please don’t say ‘You like it like you like your men’ or whatever. Everyone says that.”<\/p>\n
He poured sugar and cream into his own coffee, handed me mine, which I began to devour (it didn’t even make a dent in my exhaustion) and then stood there, stirring his own coffee. We were lost in our own thoughts. He was deep in contemplation. Turns out, it was about me – but I didn’t guess that in that moment. He was just pondering me, perched on top of the counter, pale, sipping the coffee he made for me, in the dawn-lit bar where he works, half an hour away from having to go to my job.<\/p>\n
He turned to stare at me, still stirring his coffee. He looked at me for a long time. Contemplatively. I didn’t ask what he was looking at me like that for. I just looked back at him. Then he said – slowly – choosing his words – or, no – not choosing his words – M. doesn’t really do that – but slowly, as though this idea had just occurred to him and surprised him: “You must really like me.”<\/p>\n
That is SUCH a funny moment if I really ponder it. I’ve known this guy for 3 years, and now<\/u> he says, in a tone of awe, “You must really like me!” It was so sincere. I started laughing. “Of course<\/u> I like you. What are you, a moron?” Laughing at him. “You didn’t know that I like you?”<\/p>\n
“Well – no – I mean, I know you like me. But, I mean, you must like<\/u> me. You’ve gotten no sleep because of me, and you’re about to go to work – I mean, there’s not too many people I’d do that for.” (He didn’t say if he’d do it for me or not.) “I think it’s rare.”<\/p>\n
I felt like I should say<\/u> something, but I didn’t know what to say. M. sensed that in me, because he said, quickly, reassuring, “No, I mean – it’s cool – that you like me – I mean … I guess I just didn’t know.” He went back into contemplative stirring-coffee mode.<\/p>\n
“Well, now you know.” I said.<\/p>\n
We drank coffee, not talking, the air clear between us. Both of us thinking. About the other. He gets shy. Like he doesn’t want to say too much, or ruin anything.<\/p>\n
He said, looking down into his coffee, “I feel like there’s not a word evolved enough for what we are.”<\/p>\n
Fragile moment. I didn’t speak. I let it hover. He had more to say. I knew it. He said, “You have always struck me, from the very beginning as … someone who … wanted to different<\/u> than what you are.”<\/p>\n
That was an ambiguous thing to say. I saw 2 possible interpretations – or, no, actually – now<\/u> I see the 2 interpretations – but this is how I took it at the time: Sheila, you have been trying to be something you’re not.<\/p>\n
So I felt a little chilled by that. I pursued it. “What do you …”<\/p>\n
He meant what he had said – but it wasn’t the negative interpretation that I put on it. He meant that: I’m not satisfied anymore with being unhappy, repressed, uptight – and I am determined to get over myself, and get better, push through these barriers I have up.<\/p>\n
I did not know that he had perceived that from the beginning. I remember him saying to me on a tequila-soaked summer’s eve, when I was all upset and weepy, “Your journey … has just begun.” He knew<\/u>. How did he know?<\/p>\n
He explained what he meant: “The first time we went out … ” (neither of us know how to define this whole damn thing – we have no words – there are not words evolved enough for what we are) “Well – I told you this – you were so – ” (he stopped talking, and then kind of hugged his arms around himself, put his head down – to show how closed I was and uptight) “And I wasn’t — sure how to handle it … I wasn’t sure if you …” (unfinished sentence, wincing expression, awkward, shy) “But then … you kept …” (stopped himself – and smiled – and I knew what he meant. I had kept calling him, kept making myself available – he didn’t say it in a mean way. It’s the truth.) I said, grinning, “I kept coming back for more, huh.” “Well … yeah … so I figured … Okay … This person is …” (all of this accompanied with those subtle facial expressions and hand gestures he does – we transcend words – the expression and the gesture he made conveyed my whole life<\/u>: pushing through, frustrated, upset, sick of being upset … wanting to be happy<\/u>. He saw all that?) I nodded in agreement with his interpretation of me. He said, nearly unable to get it out – too awkward and vulnerable, “So … it’s kind of cool, Sheila … to see how you have progressed. It’s …” He stopped. It’s like I was inside of him. Like he could hear those words “how you have progressed” and to him they suddenly sounded patronizing. But no. They were not. I said, softly, “It is cool, M. It is cool.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Quotes, snippets, fragments … some of this I don’t remember at all … some is as vivid to me as a newsreel flickering of my own life before my own eyes … I never go thru old journals – except … Continue reading