Alchemical

A week before my period, I get emotional. I still do.

I used to think that one ovary was the angry ovary, throw-knives angry. My temper would trigger fast, the heat would rise up my neck, and I would struggle to "stay - in - control."

The other ovary would be weepy. I would cry at almost nothing, at Hallmark Cards television ads. Pathetic.

The angry ovary is on hiatus. Anymore, I get the weepies. I cry at the drop of a hat. It happens mostly when I am by myself (preferably) watching gooey television, any romantic film on cable or Masterpiece Theater, renditions of anything Austen, Bronte, Copperfield, or James.

I'll watch such weepies on purpose. I like the way it feels. It reminds me how hard it is to be in love, of the endless yearning and hopefulness.

"I cannot live without my life, I cannot live without my soul."

Right. My big brain knows that obsessive love doesn't work. The couple of times I was the object of obsession, it felt like a vise encircled my neck, and that it was tightened to the point of suffocation. I was good at running away.

Except for the handful of times when I obsessed. Right after a breakup. It's as if I went into shock, my brain slowed, and I did irrational things.

Even today, when I recall some stupid behavior, I blush from embarrassment. And then I chuckle. I've learned how to forgive myself, and I've learned how to keep those nutty impulses in check. They never last anyhow, and for all I know, they might be healing.

Comedy equals tragedy plus time.

Sometimes, one other feeling lingers. The feeling of waiting, of the belief that the real thing will someday come along and grab me by the shirt.

In truth, I've had some of those shirt-grabbing moments.

I thought I would describe a handful, but one in particular is doing its every-few-months lap around my memory. (Except for another one, a funny guy I knew turned up at my apartment while I was painting...picked up a brush and helped me finish. Okay, there are others.)

They tend to be Erasers.

The one I remember happened maybe ten years ago. I was finishing a mid-summer ecological science conference in Snowbird, Utah. A scientist himself (geologist), he had just returned from lengthy field research project in the high deserts of western China. And he popped into Utah for a long weekend. We had a history by then of a couple of days here and there around the country. We lived on opposite ends of the country, in so many ways, yet we managed to get together now and then.

Push pins in a map of the United States: Georgia, Massachusetts, Nevada, Washington, D.C., New Mexico, Utah...

We hiked up a Snowbird mountain together. We started at 8000 feet above sea level, summitted at over 11,000 feet, took the ski tram down, and wound up in the middle of a belly dancer festival on the Snowbird resort grounds.

Never mind the belly dancers (Mormons?).

I remember I had the time of my life, not so much for our easy and funny conversation, but more for his way of always making me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered.

I also recall that he had an altimeter and thermometer in his wristwatch. Plus, he could describe the geological history of the montane region just east of the Salt Lake basin. It was as if he was reciting Shakespeare's sonnets to me.

The last time I saw him was maybe five years ago. He had a girlfriend and I had a boyfriend. We all met for dinner. At one point in the conversation, I remember he still had that twinkle, and if we had been by ourselves, something else would have happened.

In that, our desires and energies were well-matched.

We talk every now and then - usually when he is on a long drive somewhere in the great Southwest, heading to another research trench-digging site. He always has a good story.

Or a sad one. A few years back, he had his heart broken for what sounded like the first time. It took the piss out of him, and it took time too. (I broke my own a couple of years later - as hard as I ever have, only for me, it took less time that time.)

He could be married now. 

But whenever I recall our times, I smile. I have no regrets.

Someday, maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe a roll of the dice will present another such person, who "poof" will be there before me, and grab me by the shirt.

Only maybe I will see him, and pay more attention.   

Comments

[HH]

Ann, thanks for stopping by. I wish Jake, and his litter-mate sister, Aida, who passed about sixteen months ago, could have been with me a little while longer, but that was not meant to be. Kitty-critters are wonderful, but I think I will take a break before considering another adoption. As to the other, I wouldn't mind going off to London - even if it is one of the few more expensive cities than NYC - except that the East End in this case refers to the eastern-most towns of Long Island, yes: the Hamptons. I hope all is well with you, Ann, and if you would do me the favor, take a lingering look at the sun as it sets orange, red, and purple over the Front Range.

[Ann in Boulder]

Hi Holly - I was thinking of you today and came to your blog to see what was new. I'm so sorry about Jake. I remember how hard it was to let go of my beloved Miss B when she died at age 20+. I hope you enjoy your summer in London.

[HH]

Michelle and Nancy, thank you both for your comments. They mean the world to me. xo

[Nancy]

Oh Holly,

I am so very sorry for your loss. I just discovered this site after seeing you at Mary's memorial service. I read about Aida's passing and now Jake's. Dearest girl, perhaps consider another two little kitten babies? My heart breaks for you. I have two cats and am devoted to them. Crazy, isn't it?

[Michelle]

I found your site when I did a search for John Kochansky shortly after his sudden death. He was a friend of mine in the early eighties. I enjoy your stories. Have a good weekend.