Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

“Have you ever stared in the mirror for so long that your face stopped making sense? It just become a bunch of shapes. Just shapes. Not good or bad.”

—	Noelle, The Truth About Cats and Dogs

It really only happens in the heat of engagement, and even then it is not a common occurrence. Just before the dissolution of self, when my mind is hanging on to the last threads of coherency, sometimes-rarely, he changes. I tend to think it is marvelous, and wonder about it, before forgetting to even think about it until the next time it happens.

No, I have already gotten it wrong.

He doesn't change at all. He is still the same sweet, loving, playful boy that I have seen before, except I start to notice new parts of him. I guess I am the one that changes. It isn't unheard of- the mosaic of intimacy. You bring yourself so close to another person that they lose their form. They become a collection of shapes with ends and beginnings and overlaps, but cease to be, just for a moment, the person (As a whole, complete, manicured being) that they project to the world. In general I love that moment. I think that it is the most honest that two people can be with each other. It is a moment of humming and becoming, of once was and existence in the now. It is quite beautiful. But sometimes what you see is not what you expect and the moment jolts you more powerfully than the liquid grace that it normally wraps you in.

Sometimes, he jolts me.

It isn't that he becomes something completely foreign that I can not relate to or understand. Quite the contrary. The shapes that I see when I let go of everything and draw myself up into him, far enough to make him my entire existence, are eerily familiar. They are beyond familiar. They are actually recognizable. I have seen that jaw line before, not in some vague way, but in a way that I can name the place and time and person that I saw it connected to. The nose, too. The set of the eyes, both the left and the right, and the angle at which his hair sticks out from his head. They are all KNOWN to me.

Now I get that it is rather creepy and perhaps disrespectful in some ways to contemplate past adventures in a new bed. I am rather good at putting aside the recognition, drawing back, and seeing my husband for who he is, but afterwards I got to thinking. Maybe it isn't creepy. Maybe it is fate. Maybe I have been trying to find the man that fits with me, and I have kept finding repeating shapes. I have found the correct set of the mouth and the correct tone of voice but never the whole person that just fit me. Until now. Now I have finally found a package that collects all of those shapes that I have been magnetically drawn to over the years. I have found my destiny, and every person that I have met and loved before him has helped me to be able to recognize the smallest, most beautiful details about him. Sometimes I watch him sleep, so very peaceful, and I see my life flash before me... from the very first crush until now. But it is more than that, because when I draw out and look at him as a whole, and he opens his sleepy eyes and smiles at me, I see my future. I see all of the amazing things that we have the capability to do. I see a whole lotta shapes. 

The Darkness

Every year my soul takes a vacation past the darkness. December the days grow shorter and the soul flees. I don't know where it goes, but go it does, somewhere far from me, and it leaves me as some sort of soulless zombie-child for a few weeks, when the days are shortest. I get cranky. I get sad. I have learned that the exhaustion will fade. The new year comes, a most melancholy holiday, and soon after that the days will start to grow longer. Spring will come and then, in a burst of suddenness, there will be summer. The days will be too long and I will feel too alive, and all will be as it should be, as we are told that we are supposed to feel as humans- happy, thankful, joyful. It is hard to be a human in the winter. A summer human, that is. But it is like the world wants to deny that winter is happening. With our heaters, and our false lighting, we claim to have captured summer year round. Be happy, they demand. I refuse, and my soul goes on vacation. For a few weeks, sometimes a couple of months, the depression of the winter settles in. It is not unbearable. I can handle it, quite well, after 30 years of practice. But the people around me seem to have a hard time of it. Come on, get happy, they whine at me. I refuse.
This year has been a little different. Having a lover stretched in bed beside me has kept my spirits up, or rather, down, nailed to me, here with me. It isn't that wee have been running around, hand in hand with a summer hunger, defying the winter. But he accepted my levels, and sunk into a lovely hibernation with me. It has been wonderful. Then, last night, he left. He is only gone for two weeks, and then we meet up again, in Bulgaria. (Oh, how I am petrified to return to Bulgaria!) But as soon as he left the darkness swept in around me. I took the metro to the bus, and waiting in the misty night I felt just how dark and cold it was. Only 7 in the evening and by the time I got home I wanted nothing more than to go to bed. Of course, I didn't. I stayed up and worked a bit on my final projects for the semester. I thought about him taking a bus up over the mountains, down by the sea, to a place that he calls home. No, he doesn't. He calls here, with me, home. I missed him, and my soul tugged itself away. Time for vacation, it said, and numbness settled in. Everything was settled, still.
People have this huge fear of needing others. Love yourself, they say. Be complete on your own, they demand. I am complete on my own. I am a whole person. But, honestly, I like my life better with him. I like waking up with him. I like eating with him. I like solving problems with him. I like walking home with him. I like grocery shopping with him. I like running with him. He is this constant friend, companion, love to me, always supportive and understanding and filled with secrets to discover. I love him. Need? It is a relative word, I think. I am perfectly capable of functioning without him. I can go to coffee shops and write this weekend. I can hang out with my friend next week. I can concentrate on school and clean my house. No, I do not need him, but I love having him in my life, every part, every second, every day.
I still wonder about how sudden our commitment to each other was. Really, within a month of meeting we were all-in, ready to spend the rest of our lives together. I try to remember why I used to think that commitment was such a difficult thing, why love was so hard to admit that sometimes I just ignored it altogether. I can't. With him love is so very easy. It pours out between us. Whispered admissions of love and desire and joy. Why would we ever hide these from another? Why would we ever reject these from another? Society has built a queer prison in which it keeps love and commitment as something sacred. I unlocked the cages and threw away the keys. No more, and enough is enough. I am ready to love, and so very happy that I have found a person brave enough to love, uninhibited, with me.

The Naked Head

The other day the boy asked me to shave his head. When was the last time that I picked up a set of clippers? It was to my own head. Before that there were a few vital strokes before my eldest brother marched off into the military, and permanently beyond my understanding. I was terrified. Not now, but back then. I had never experienced someone leaving home. He was the first in our family to go. Looking back I cannot even remember a time when he seemed to be there. I distinctly remember my other brother. Our resources crossed often and there was constant bickering between us. I just can't remember my older brother living with us, even when his room was just across the upstairs landing from mine. That is my brother, a ghost, the eternally absent figure. I have no proof that he hasn't changed, and yet isn't that proof enough? Still, even though he wasn't actually there, I was terrified to see him go. I remember the sound of the clippers when we plugged them in, and how important I felt as I took the first stroke from his hair. The lessons I learned that night were deep and passed on to every generation. I learned about submission and pride. There is a proper way to submit. Submission needs to be accompanied by an act of defiance. There is always a line. Always burn something so that they can't take it. Always submit first to yourself. Surrender. Take the spoils, and let your captor have the leftovers. It was a stupid lesson. Surrender and pride. It always is.

But the other day there was no surrender and no pride. There was a certain level of trust and the giggles that accompany it. I was still nervous, but the thrill that I got from removing his head was much more fulfilling than the terrible thrill that I had on that night so many years ago. The buzzing of the clippers was intoxicating. I liked the feel of them in my hand, despite their weak current. I remembered the way it felt, for so many years, to trim up the sides of my head. I loved having my mohawk. In san francisco there was no political or social statement surrounding it. It was not about being different or fitting in. People barely noticed the geen wired pigtails. No, it was about loving my body and listening to how it wanted to be represented, and I missed it. By the time I had finished shaving the boy's head I had made a decision. My hair had to go.

After we finished his hair there was a moment of pinning, referencing pictures on the internet and a reorganization of the pins. Then there was a deep breath and staring into the mirror as the man that I love took away a small patch of my hair. Comparatively it wasn't much, just the tiniest hint at freedom. Freedom. Really, that is what it feels like. The freedom of wind on my scalp. The freedom on his fingers petting the tiniest patches of fur. The freedom to look how I want. Yes- what was once pride and surrender has transformed magically into a treatise on freedom. And, how free have I found myself over the years? Through the slavery of state and society I have burned a slight hole, burrowed myself in, and can safely say- I have tasted freedom. 

Fear of the unknown

The most attractive thing to me is the unknown. There is something about making eye-contact with a complete stranger that thrills me. In mere seconds an entire lifetime of possibility passes between you, and the buzz that is shared in that moment is electrifying. It is intoxicating. I am not talking about attraction. Well, yes I am, but not of the traditional sort. I am not writing only about lust and love. I am writing about recognition and the desire for understanding. I am trying to capture the moment that holds not only romance but the possibility of a deep friendship or a challenging enemy. Sometimes, hell, to be honest, most of the time, the best seconds of knowing someone come in the moments before knowing them. You can go ahead and think that I am callous, preferring the objectified disembodiment of fantasy to the rich depths of real relationships, but you know it isn't true. You know that I love intimacy and friendship. I love the joy of discovering truths that I could not imagine about people. But think about it. There is one perfect moment when you see someone and they are everything that you want them to be. They are funny, and their voice (although you've never heard it) is the sweetest sound that you can imagine. They are warm, and comforting. They are exciting and dangerous. They hold the knowledge of the world. They will be there when you cry, and their hijinks will always make you smile. They remind you of your best friend when you were five. Your parents would hate them, your current friends would not understand them, but you would love them. Across the room they are all of this and more. They are undefined possibility, and as long as they stay far enough away from you they can continue to play the hero in your fantasies. You wait for them to drop into your life, and sometimes they do. They give a word or a smile, and maybe it is not everything that you imagined but we are resourceful beings that quickly recreate our lies and so it is enough to fuel their perfection. You delicately ride this golden wave of mystery, hoping to just barely graze their surface, knowing any misstep will plunge you deep into their being.

It is there, beneath the waters of the flesh, that the imperfections lie. They become a friend or enemy and they are never what you never were aware that you expected from them. They are always different. Sometimes they are better, sometimes not as good, and even though it is not quite a disappointment it is still a bit of a let down, a deflation of excitement. You can grasp them, touch their existence. They become real, with all of their imperfections and surprises. For better or worse, the mystery is gone and they become a person.

Now the truth is that I am not writing about anyone that I have lost. The plunge into reality has usually been quite sweet, and I realize that there will be infinite fantasies out in the great wide open. What I am afraid of is loosing my own mystery. I know how enticing the unknown is, and I know that the known cannot compare to the unknown. It isn't better, it isn't worse, it is on a different plane altogether. I know this and yet the possibilities that I will never have after hello has been said cut me to the core. Even while writing this I know that it is not a big deal. I can whimper and whine over the perfection that I am not, but I will always desire the arms of a lover, the knowing smile of a friend, the pointed comment from a rival, and the stinging love of family rather than the cool, distant excitement of mystery. 

Intimacy

What is intimacy? Is it the vulnerability associated with nudity? Is it sharing your shame, or your dreams that you fear may never come true? Or perhaps it is less to do with vulnerability of any type and more about consistency- sharing regular time and experience together and being honest in your actions and reactions to things. I have seen couples search together for this elusive intimacy, and some succeed and some fail to find it. I have seen individuals yearn, thirst, beg, and desire for intimacy in all of its forms. And where can it be found? In a friend? A lover? Family? The unconditional love of a pet?

Last night at school we had a very intimate presentation topic. Our block dealt with Visual and Sensory Anthropology and our assignment consisted of bringing in 3 sensory objects that contextualized us in a cultural or political setting. I went directly towards scouting for my objects as my focus as scouting is full of symbolism, and experiential learning. However, as I listened to the presentations of my classmates I started to feel that I had ducked out of the assignment. They brought in such personal, intimate examples. From the football cards that one boy had traded with a now-deceased friend that contextualized the politics of war for him, to a cut-off dreadlock that helped a girl express her non-hetero-normative gender, these secrets were dark and personal. I could have brought in any number of secrets. I could have shared. Instead, what was most important to me was not secret at all. It was very open, and acceptable. Is intimacy only built in secrets and shame, and the strength to share what is unacceptable? Perhaps it is built in shared passion like the boy who charmingly spoke of his obsession with the ticking sound of clocks...

I came home and my boyfriend met me at the bus stop with a jacket. He wrapped it around me and took my hand. We shared a dinner, cuddled up to each other and watched a television show. We kissed. He read me a story. We made love. In the morning we cuddled and I talked and talked, telling him all about the class from the night before. I revealed to him my fear that I was loosing my academic touch, and my joy at the response I received from my instructor. (A very positive  response, which also contained specific areas to work on.) It is a relationship that doesn't lack for intimacy, for trust, for a depth of (Here I must insert a word that does not quite explain what I am going for, but there is no other) security. I have no fear with him.

Yet the teasing out of new intimacy reminded me not to get wrapped up in the soft love of a single individual. The intimacy of friendship, of family, of crushes, of animals on the streets and even the trees that grow around us are all intimacies that I need in order to be a happy, whole individual.