"I'm sorry to say that this is not the movie you'll be watching. The movie you are about to see is extremely unpleasant. If you wish to see a film about a happy little elf, I'm sure there is still plenty of seating in theatre number two."--Lemony Snicket
People like 'happy' things. Sparkly things. Shimmery, shiny, who-wants-to-go-to-the-beach-and-play-vollyball-with-highly-attractive-members-of-the-opposite-sex things.
This ain't that kind of blog.
What I want to talk about is, really, a series of unfortunate events.
And it's my blog. So I can.
If you are lucky, I may sprinkle it with multicolored New Years' Eve confetti and import pictures of Ryan Reynolds' abs...but I make no promises. So for those of you reconsidering reading this post, I suggest you cozy up with some stale popcorn and overpriced soda in theater number two.
As to the rest of you...
Let's discuss...oh, i don't know...LOSS.
And for those of you whose minds leapt instantly to flashbacks of UGA's seemingly unceasing failures in Jacksonville, well, all I can say is that maybe this blog isn't for you.
Let's start at the very beginning, as I've heard from a very reliable source that the beginning is a very good place to start.
I was told recently, by someone who loved me very much, that I "cannot be alone."
Let that sink in for a moment.
Am I a "people person"? Yes.
Do I think the world would pretty much suck without you assholes in it? Um, yeah.
Do I think God put 7 billion of us here so that we could run around avoiding each other? Not likely.
So do I need people?...Well, sure.
I admit these things. I embrace them. But try as I might, I just couldn't palate the possibility that my love of people equates to an inability to be alone. (Try spitting that last sentence three times fast. Go ahead. Try it. This is a blog and I've got all day...)
I pondered it. (The 'cannot be alone' thing. Not the repetition thing. That'd just be a silly point to ponder.)
Anyway, what I came up with is this: some people fixate on what they do not or cannot have. For example:
Shit I do not have:
a Lamborghini Murcielago LP 640 Roadster
an Italian Villa with walkable gardens on the Appian Way
the Hope Diamond, delivered personally by Prince William
a pair of jeans that fit
And while I would absolutely love to have these things, I'd say I manage to go about my daily life without crying (much) over their absence. Why? Because I am not one of those people who obsesses over what they can't or don't have.
Thus, I am not one who obsesses over not having, say, a boyfriend. Why? It just ain't me.
So what DO I obsess over if not the absence of what I don't have?
The loss of what I DO have.
Like a cripple remembering healthy limbs, I, unhealthily, mire myself in loss.
Even over little things.
I cried when I traded in my first car, even though I was gung-ho about its replacement. (Did I just type 'gung-ho'? I did. There's your New Years Eve confetti guys. Relish it.)
I cried when I left a school I despised.
I cried when I left jobs I hated.
Because each time I lost something. So what if it was a wretched something? It was MY wretched something.
Which is what makes this morning's discovery so much more poignant. If I lament the loss of my 1981 Nissan 200SX with somewhere in the neighborhood of 120,000 miles on it and a roof panel that fell down in my face when I drove, then you can imagine how much the loss of, say, a loved one, affects me.
This morning, while walking Melvin in the dewy parking lot, I began to think about my grandmother. Next month will mark a year since her passing, and I cannot tell you what her presence--and now her absence--has meant to me.
In July, my sister will have been gone for three years. Which is about three years and a day too many. And in November, I will remember my grandfather, whose long, lean frame I still close my eyes and see, as he baits my line for me (I could never kill the worm) along the banks of the Carticay.
Death. He haunts me. Yes, we have a date with Destiny, he and I.
And not just over the souls he has claimed...
I want to confront him for the many relationships torn asunder by his cythe. Beautiful memories mired in gore.
Vengeance. I want it. For the friends and lovers who, though still alive, are dead to me. And I will take said vengeance against Death. Or attempt it.
Because if I acknowledge the true Architect behind the passing of these relationships--well, He is someone who cannot be crossed.
He is unfailing and omniscient.
He is right, and I am wrong.
And that is a confetti-less realization, devoid of beach vollyball and Ryan Reynolds' abs.
Which is why Death and I have a long-standing date. Him I can battle and, in my ignorance, believe in the option of a margin of victory. The Architect, well...
I do not mourn what I do not have. I mourn what I had and lost. There is a difference. And to me that difference is marked and profound.
I can stomach it if I never meet you. If we continue to pass on the street and never speak. If you sit next to me in class but we never have the "may I borrow a pencil" exchange that inevitably leads to coffee every Wednesday at 6.
But what I cannot do is lose you.
What I cannot do is forget that chance encounter that changed my day, my perspective, and, yes, in some small way, my life.
What I cannot do is deny that you affect me.
Once I have grabbed hold, I cannot turn loose.
I guess I do need you.
Please, please don't leave me.