Though I've professed to myself, Kevyn, James, and Stacey that whatever happens with Jan happens and will not be adorned with hope, I am excited to be seeing her again. There is no spark of romance, just a feeling of newness, of stepping off in a new direction not simply without fear but with ready anticipation. Call that hope if you like, but that would be premature, and I want nothing about this to be premature. Everything in its time. But as I was showering I thought it would be nice to have a tale to tell Monday if anyone should care to ask about my weekend. And I would want Julie to hear it. (The audience sighs and shakes its head.) In the moment, at the bakery, I will make nothing of anything, and afterwards, on paper, I will subdue the event in reportage, but Monday, at work, I will breathe a life into it, deservingly or not. I'm a storyteller, after all.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Hi Dion, I read through your blog and offered a few comments. Really good writing, very descriptive and witty. I think you will continue to feel better from this point forward, but will always feel something for Julie. At least, that's the way it works for me. The struggle for me is always to allow the feelings without denying them, yet not take them too seriously (or not too "tragically" or something) at the same time.
Dion Burn said...
I'm honored, LL, that you read my entire blog. You have offered me a valuable perspective that I only regret not having sooner. I'm nearly ready to admit that what I've been feeling is love, the final hurdle being my reluctance to believe that I've made such a futile investment in such a valuable emotion. But, then, what choice had I?
1. Nover (2/06/09 Friday)
Thursday night I had a desk hour with Jennifer. I thought I owed her an apology for thinking she had been the original snitch of the blog. Jennifer wouldn't have known this, because I never sent that email invitation, of course, Chris' conscience having stepped in at the nick of time to urge his confession (if only it had stepped in earlier to obviate the need for a confession), but Tammy warned her I was gunning for her. Ever since, I've felt the need to apologize for the distress this may have caused her. Well, I tried to apologize--in fact, I must be given credit for doing so, even it ws accepted as if I were trying to return a borrowed tissue. It wasn't grace or humility that didn't want my apology, but fear and embarrassment. She actually seemed to physically shrink when I mentioned the "blog...mess" and waved her hands across each other in front of her face. "It's over, she said sharply over my words. I said, "I know it may be water under the bridge, but I just thought I owed you an apology for blaming you for something you didn't do," the sentence was woven through with her "No, it's okay, it's over, it's good, it's all good." That was a first for me--browbeating someone with an apology. It seems only a guilty conscience would so vociferously refuse an apology. Makes me glad I opened the wound. "Over," she'd said. Just like that, huh? For whom?
Encountered Thomas at the back door on my lunch break as I was gathering the manuscript and journal book. "Where's the picture?" was the first thing he said to me. (I still park the bike by the back door.) "I was forced to remove it." "What?" he said, the expulsion of the word recoiling his head and shoulders. "Yeah," I said, "but I'm puttin' it back on there." Thomas howled. "Ah, you go, Dion!" With his handtruck piled with book bins he trailed me up the hall laughing. "Man, you are all right!"
I have plans tomorrow morning, and it's not scooter soccer with Matt. Jan emailed me today to say she'd be in town. I called her when I got home, and we set up a rendezvous for ten-thirty at Jean-Jacques.
1. Fungs (2/05/09 Thursday)
The fun came at me yesterday. Scared out of my wits, I ran. Avoiding Julie had been too easy this half day of concurrent schedule, and I was chagrined at the lack of challenge. It was after three, and I was shelving in Children's knowing Julie was at her desk with her headphones on, listening for flaws in a CD or DVD. At the top of the next hour I'd be going to lunch, and afterwards to the desk as she left for home. I hate it when scheduling makes my mission so easy. How can my point be made when it's shadowed by routine?
Bemoaning this from my knees as I shelved the easies, a stack of books landed heavily beside me. I looked before she unbent, at the lyart hair fallen across her face and down the billowed v-neck of her sweater at the curve of her breasts. Both the recognition and the compromising view ordered my glance quickly away.
"Here, Dion. Shelve these," said Julie with mock officiousness then a laugh to hedge her tone to ensure I knew it was a joke. I laughed meekly, and she laughed again more appreciatively.
"What makes these books so special?" I said.
"Well, I read this section earlier, and these books that go there were staring at me from the sorting cart. I knew it wouldn't take long to shelve them."
She was there for ten minutes, the last nine of which my shirt was undone and sleeves pushed up above my elbows to vent my boiling blood. When, done, she walked away, I cursed her. Dammit, I thought to her back, you don't make it easy to ignore you. But, there, exactly, was my challenge and chance to have fun, and those were the words that should have been spoken. I got what I wanted, didn't I? But I wasn't careful how I asked for it: I wasn't aware I was asking.
When I returned with the cart five minutes later, all the while assessing the damage to my strategy caused by this new monkey wrench, I instinctively, against muffled warning, shot a glance down to the last desk. There Julie sat, headphones on, looking at me. She looked away, I looked away. I parked the cart, and at that moment knew I could not possibly stop ignoring her now for fear that she'd think I'd seen a sign of affection. She may have been trusting me again with her silliness, but all I can do about it is nothing, except learn to rejoin her.
1. Diaphanous Allusion? (2/04/09 Wednesday)
Julie is invisible again, or almost; I haven't quite gotten back in the swing. If Monday's chill stare wasn't enough, my new attitude prodded me backward, suppressing the conscience that made me uneasy about it before. If I'm really to believe that all this hasn't been about her, as I've professed, then she must truly be made an object--or, maybe, rather, the vehicle on which this project rides. Or would she be the fuel propelling the vehicle? What is she? Not a metaphor, apparently.
1. The Ghost of Reality Future (2/03/09 Tuesday)
James asked me last night, haltingly, carefully, if I really, honestly, "100 percent," wanted to be over Julie. The question mark wasn't off his lips before I answered, emphatically, "No!" So, there, I said it, I have a witness--there's no honest equivocation to rationalize it, to convince my mind to convince my heart. But--if I'm to keep this (whatever "this" is) going I have got to have fun with it. I've emailed Matt hopeful of him still having the Julie picture I emailed him. His would be the only extant copy, since I so diligently destroyed the prints, erased it off the CD, deleted Gay Lynn's email of it, and emptied the bin. I intend to replace it on my bike fender, but this time cover it with a flap that I can velcro closed. It's a taunt, to be sure, but one Julie would never see; if she didn't see it the first time before someone told her, she wouldn't so much as glance at it this time around, having reason already to believe that "danger" over. Having it there before made me feel good, and I got a chuckle rubbing the dirt from her face. It was not a shrine to a goddess. On the cover I'll put something like "Guess Who?" If anyone lifts it they can see underneath, of course, but they'd also be invading my privacy. Where I take the fun from there, I don't know, but I have to have some laughs about it if I'm to minimize the pain; and with the right perspective I can do that.
There was nothing funny yesterday when, after a week away, I walk into the workroom and come face to face with Julie at the bottleneck beside my desk where everyone stops to check the posted schedule. It was a standoff, the briefest yet most steadfast standoff, and I backed away. Our eyes met, and at that moment she struck me as old, at least several years older than I. She seemed to have wrinkles where a week ago there'd been none. She looked tired, if not haggard. I muttered, "Good morning," without a smile and backpedalled into my desk space to let her pass, which she did with neither smile nor word. I was chilled. I did not see her face again, though I was constantly looking for her and would be disappointed if she wasn't there. Still, if she was, I did not look beyond recognition, taking no chances on eye contact. But what had I seen that first time?
1. "Polish Me" (1/30/09 Friday)
Here's the weekend, and I'm already seeing Monday. Once the kids show up Saturday, it's a routine slide into work, Julie and dread. My first thought of Julie this morning was of how beautiful she is, and it seemed a strange thought, detached from my feelings for her. She'd become an object. But hadn't she always been that? Hadn't she always been a representation of something other than herself, of something I wanted? Now she seemed even less, just something to enjoy looking at. Is that what I want? Though that detachment has lingered through the morning, its dominance has faded as the dread reminds me of my embarrassment over her power over me and the pride it has cost me.
Julie had never been a sexual being to me. Not only did it seem cart-before-horse, but it would have pulled her down from the pedestal. The plaque on the pedestal: What did it read? Is she still on it? I still do not think of her sexually, but I think less of her in other ways--ways for which I can't fault her but which I can finally move to the category of Irreconcilable Differences--essentially, in the departments of sophistication and depth of intellect. From the foot of the pedestal I would gaze upward past these "faults." Now they are flashing neon that makes her character look garish. Yet still so beautiful.
1. Square Zero (1/29/09 Thursday)
Came a time when, bitter and frustrated, I wondered if I'd ever actually been fascinated with Julie, and I'd all but convinced myself I had not but had, instead, fabricated the infatuation from the whole cloth of hope. I am less convinced now--that is, I believe that much of the fascination was wishful thinking, but that it eventually took on a life of its own. If I was not initially fascinated, I was nonetheless curious. My curiosity asked questions, paid attention. Answers begged more questions. Now, I likely know Julie better than anyone else at the library save Stacey, a yet she's still an utter mystery. Many people there I don't know at all and am indifferent to knowing; others make sure you know more about them than you'd ever care to. But I can't know Julie enough, even now, when there is absolutely no hope of being anything more to her than a co-worker; when I can't stand to hear her voice; when her presence in the same room forces me to peel off a layer or roll up my sleeves to counter the super-heating manic blood flow. I still want to know--about the brother who died, the boyfriend who influenced her to take up horticulture at Tech, the "mess" that she ran from, how she got into music and why she left. And then there's me: Why did she agree (and so readily) to meet me at Stir Crazy and yet was shocked to hear I had feelings for her? What made her afraid of me after that? Why did she not come to me about the picture and the blog? What does she think now that I've told her how I felt about having to continue to work with her, was still writing the blog, and had been offended by her pre-rejection flattery? If I had these answers would I feel any better? She'd still not be attracted to me or care for my attention. Should I have let this go long ago? I don't let things go; that's ignore-ance. I want things resolved. Thank god I don't have an addiction, huh? I don't know how to stop hurting over Chris' betrayal and Julie's reaction. And it's over for them; they can let go. Well, I'm in between those ends they were holding up, and the load isn't any lighter sitting on my back. Ah, but there I go, bearing the cross, playing at martyrdom. Chin up, stiff upper lip, what what! Doesn't work, any more than does time away from Julie. Or ignoring her. Or thinking about her. Or writing about her. I hate being back at this square, still wondering, wishing, hoping, seething.
1. Let Me Not (5/22/08 Thursday)*
The burden isn't lifted, but it may be lighter; but that could be as much from talking to Julie yesterday as from writing. Of course I didn't broach the primary subject on my mind (you kidding?) but just getting her talking to me about herself gets me closer to her. Don't expect me to rhapsodize over her or "count the ways"--I've grown too much to imbue such talk with objective quality: We all feel the same things in this situation and attribute solid qualities to cloudy ideals. No, she's not the most perfect, beautiful woman whoever floated across a meadow; there's just something that attracts me to her, and I refuse (now) to enumerate, much less analyze those traits.
I ride with Stacey today. I may try to tell her, but not till the way back this evening. I won't see her again from then till Wednesday, and, even better, she won't be back to work till then. It may kill her, but it'll be good for her.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
"there's just something that attracts me to her, and I refuse (now) to enumerate, much less analyze those traits."
I feel the same way, generally, about my love & love in general. Who wants to analyze in an "objective fashion" why we fall in love with a particular person?
1. Inspiration (5/21/08 Wednesday)*
I won't dwell on the passed time. I stopped writing because it seemed self-indulgent and personally unproductive. But as I've come to understand that I must accept a certain degree of all my shortcomings as my nature--i.e., not strive to be perfect--I must accept, too, the need to write once in a while, for whatever purpose or to whatever end.
I write now because I have no one to trust with what I need to tell someone: I have a crush--an infatuation, to be less teenish-- with someone at work. It's Julie, and it seems to have come on suddenly--that is, its growth was unnoticed until it blocked my view.
I suppose it's not so much that I can't trust someone else with this secret, but that it wouldn't be fair to burden anyone else with it. Stacey would be severely tested to keep it to herself, though, for me, she would; and Mike, though he would absolutely not tell anyone else, might himself have some feelings for Julie, and I'm not sure that upon hearing my confession, he would confide the same in turn but for respect for me would either step aside emotionally or quietly resent me.
I tried to tell Mike last Friday, when we met for a casual dinner, as we unoccasionally do, but I never got up the courage or found the opening that allowed the topic to come up on its own.
Stacey has been out of touch lately. Though we are close, her almost child-like self-absorption often precludes me sharing my own life details with her. I haven't come close to broaching this subject with her.
I have nothing to lose talking to Matt about Julie; he doesn't know her, doesn't work with us. Maybe that's why I haven't tried telling him. Or maybe it's the anticipation of sober advice that makes me hesitate. I feel full enough of my own sober advice. What I want is relief of this burden, yet I can't simply give it to someone else. I certainly can't tell Julie. I'd like to believe that if anything is there it will flower, but I'm not confident, and less so every day, as I find more "reasons" and "indications" pointing to her lack of interest in me, and more faults in myself that justify it.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
"that is, its growth was unnoticed until it blocked my view."
that's exactly how I felt, too...
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