In her brutally honest diary of grief, Companion Through the Darkness, Stephanie Ericsson writes:
What appears to be derangement from observers is only a rearrangement of all parts of our personalities. Still, it seems to be so deeply disturbing to watch. Those who loved us, liked us, respected us, are watching a re-forming of a human being outside of the womb. Since this has always been a private domain, and since we are not concerned with what others think, our friends and loved ones watch in the kind of horror they would have if they saw us defecating in the middle of a boulevard. It is the saving grace of derangement that is has no cognizance or respect for the opinions of others.
For once in my life, I no longer care what other people think.
I feel as if I am finally being broken down, decimated like a condemned edifice; the cracked pillars of what once seemed so important, the crumbling foundations of outdated habits, are collapsing to powder under the wrecking ball of merciless truth. My endlessly sore heart is a yawning hole in the ground, the site of both devastation and potentiality. There are no more obstructions.
Death is the wrecking ball, the merciless truth; when the dust settles, the way is clear.
**
Over the weekend I received this decimating news: my childhood friend Jonathan Goldman had succumbed to non-Hodgkins lymphoma in July. He had been living with the disease for over a decade — unbeknownst to me.
The shock was like a shotgun blast beside my ear, rendering the world oddly silent and still. Jon? We had always managed to reconnect, to pick up where we left off, and I assumed someday we would again. Not that he would be taken away somewhere beyond the reaches of all the wireless networks as well as the International Postal Service. How could this be?
Numbly, I posted the news on my social network. Within an hour there was a response from Adriana, who, along with Jon, was one of my best friends in the fourth grade. The three of us always sat together — we were the top students in class, and the teacher’s rotating pets. “He was the first boy I ever loved, in kindergarten!” she wrote. “I’m so sad! He was smart and funny and I had always hoped you guys would get married!”
Suddenly my shoulders started to shake. Then I was sobbing.
**
Jon and I met in Mrs. Curtis’s first grade class. As I’ve mentioned before, I was infatuated with at least half of the boys in that class, and Jon was in that half. This apple-cheeked Jewish boy with a mild speech impediment was indeed, as Adriana observed, very smart and very funny, not to mention exceedingly tolerant. I cringe to recall my attempts to evangelize him in my six-year-old born-again fervor, but I definitely knew I wanted him in heaven with me. He listened to me patiently, finally trying to explain, “But I’m Jewish. Jews don’t believe in Jesus.” He had to reiterate this point a number of times, unfortunately. I never quite got it.
Another cringe-worthy moment came when a few of my classmates and I were aping some of the schtick we’d seen on reruns of Hogan’s Heroes. Holding our palms up high, we were running around exclaiming “Heil Hitler!” to our endless amusement. Jon was not so amused. Yet he calmly explained to me, again, why this was not cool.
Adriana remembers feeling like a bit of a third wheel with me and Jon in the fourth grade — “He was so in love with you back then,” she says. I remember being pretty enamored of him myself, but Adriana and I seemed to be forever competing for his attentions. Maybe that was a misperception. (I’m beginning to think my entire youth was a misperception.) Either way, he kept us in stitches, and kept us on our toes. The three of us were always competing for the perfect grade.
But it wasn’t until junior high that things reached a critical point. At the end of a chorus trip to New York, on a charter bus driving through the night, we sat together on plush reclinable seats and fell deep into conversation while our classmates slept. It was like an eighth-grade version of Before Sunrise. We talked about our childhoods and our families and our worries and our hopes and our dreams. I’d never experienced that level of intimacy with someone of the opposite sex before. But Jon wasn’t your average boy. Far from it. (In my little social-network obituary, I called him one of the finest men I’d ever known, and I wasn’t exaggerating.) Unfortunately, I started to notice that we were being noticed by other kids on the bus, and this bothered me.
Back at school Monday, I was teased about Jon. My response and solution was to put as much distance between us as possible (to poor Jon’s bafflement and hurt). He wasn’t one of the cool kids, after all; he was a “brain,” and a nerd, and I had other crushes, notably on a very cute Christian boy who looked like Luke Skywalker.
To remember this now, under these circumstances, fills me with the deepest shame and guilt for my ignoble, ignorant, cruel behavior toward the one person who least deserved it. I’ve misrepresented myself to you, my readers, through selective memory; it’s not true that no boy I ever loved growing up loved me back. Jon loved me all along. It was I who refused to be open to loving him, and all because of my foolish vanity and fear of what other people might think.
He even forgave me for my stupid, snobbish, misguided middle-school shunning. We were back to critiquing each other’s short stories the following year, and by senior year of high school he was one of my two best friends again. We would drive to the local arthouse cinema in his tiny, ripped-to-shit orange crate of a car, or take long walks through our suburban neighborhoods, talking for hours about everything under the sun. There always seemed to be some unaddressed sexual tension hanging in the air between us, but I steadfastly insisted on treating him like a brother. He went to work for the Appalachian Mountain Club for the summer, having become an enthusiastic outdoorsman and mountain climber, and sent me numerous postcards and humorous dispatches and, at one point, even a huge, shelf-like tree fungus.
When we went off to college, he continued to write wonderful letters, at one point sending me a long missive on one continuous sheet of paper, a la Jack Kerouac. His writing style was rather Kerouackian — blunt and vivid — and I think he’d tell you that On the Road shaped his adolescent self as much as it shaped mine.
We stayed in touch when I moved out West, at least for several years. But as he worked his way through MIT, and met the woman he would eventually marry, the letters dwindled. I had been thinking a lot about him last fall, and found his self-titled company through the miracle of Google, but the email I sent to the general email address (there was no direct email for Jon) went unanswered. Oh well, I thought, maybe he’ll show up on Facebook one of these days.
**
“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly,” Antoine de Saint-Exupery famously wrote. “What is essential is invisible to the eye.”
As I rather shamefacedly admitted in a previous comment thread, I have rarely looked at things with the so-called eyes of my heart. I have gotten distracted by shiny wrapping paper and bells and whistles and what James Baldwin called the “cacophany of quotations” that we internalize from outside sources. I have been led astray time and time again by a noddle full of misgivings, or else by some glittering mirage off in the impossible distance. You weren’t exactly what I had in mind, Jon, and the other kids are gossiping, and I think I see something I like better, just over that hill.
Never mind that men like Jonathan are worth their weight in gold. Gold-men.
But it takes open eyes and an open heart to see that.
**
Last week, I tentatively suggested to Sam that we go out for a drink. He was all for it. Later that same day, he handed me a little card from the art museum that said “happy” in 1950s-retro lettering on one side, and on the other had a quote.
The quote was a particularly gleeful one from On the Road by Jack Kerouac.
Blissfully ignorant of what had happened to Jonathan, I thought of him momentarily, of our rowdy senior English class, and of how much Jack sparked our fertile, youthful imaginations. I thought about the ways in which Sam is like Jon: reliable, steady, precociously smart yet humble, unassuming, approachable, caring. Jon somehow knew, whether by nature or nurture, that being a man didn’t mean aggression or domination; he exuded quiet strength. So does Sam. Jon was a no-frills, no-bullshit kind of guy. So is Sam.
Jon would have liked Sam.
now the eyes of my eyes are open, wrote e.e. cummings, a favorite poet of one of our favorite English teachers. I would add: amid the rubble of my useless vanity and my ceaseless fretting about irrelevant judges, the eyes of my heart are open.
**
Today as I stood shakily with tears in my eyes for my lost beloved, Sam looked at me with an expression of the utmost concern and kindness in his serious dark eyes. And he was utterly, unutterably beautiful to my heart.
Shall I listen to the voices that scream he’s too young? Shall I listen to the shrill cawing of the gossips who are savoring the latest scandal and who repeat the old saw Don’t shit where you eat? Shall I date Drew instead, who is inarguably pretty and a sharp dresser and age-appropriate?
In the rare cases (and Sam is nothing if not rare), age is only a number. And while I adore the people at my job, I know it’s not where I’m meant to stay forever. It’s certainly far too small a pond for the likes of Sam. And I genuinely like Drew, but I’m not off-the-rails smitten with him because of who he is.
By now, and thanks to Jon, I know what matters.
And it isn’t what people think.
**
**
The above is what I read to Sam last night when he came over to check on me.
He stayed — for a long, nearly sleepless night of talking and lovemaking and copious amounts of laughter, at times simultaneous.
What else should I tell you, dear readers? He was delicious (I can still taste his sweet, sweet mouth), romantic, and infinitely tender. If I gave more details (which I am not about to), I would be the envy of my female readers (if they indeed exist). I made him unforgivably late for work, but he was loath to leave me. And those are words I doubt I have ever uttered about anyone.
**
In the early dawn, as Sam dozed with his arms and legs wrapped around me, I fancied I saw Jon sitting on the edge of the bed, dropping by for an impromptu visit like the late Nathaniel Fisher.
“Nice going,” he said.
{hugz}
You pay a beautiful tribute to Jon and show us what he has given you. You don’t have his future, but remember that you always have all you explain above and everything else that is yours from him. You still have kindergarten Jon, Jon on the way home from NY, and the rest. You have this eye-opening that is yours from him.
I’m NOT trying to ‘make it better’. This is really something to read later, not yet, but i can’t be sure of saying it later.
I am so terribly out of date with you! I apologise. But yes, you have a female reader (and you are the envy of her if that’s grammar). Enjoy.
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
Mand!!!!! I am so very happy to see you!!!! Do read the last post (Falling Slowly) if you want to know more about who Sam is. It also tells you something about the wonderful misfits with whom I’m currently working at my fundraising job.
Thank you for your kind words. You always have kind words.
You picked a very nice time to come back.
BM3: I have always loved Dickinson. Nice choice. I love it when she talks dirty in her Victorian way.
Actually, there’s been such a frost on my garden lately that I can hardly walk. Sam and I decided a fun euphemism for what we were up to would be “yoga,” so maybe I’ll tell people at work who see me moving slow that I’m sore from doing yoga after not practicing for a while.
I am not used to such a glut of both physical and emotional intimacy all at once.
I did not know the ample Bread –
‘Twas so unlike the Crumb
The Birds and I, had often shared
In Nature’s — Dining Room –
The Plenty hurt me — ’twas so new.
You mean trading quips with us commenters wasn’t fulfilling your emotional intimacy needs? But seriously, I can relate to what you say about feeling overwhelmed by too much abundance — we’ll just have to take on this “enjoying life” thing in baby steps.
Aha, i’m a little more up to date now. And… woo. ;0)
Can’t promise to keep myself up to date as regularly as i managed last year – not for a while, anyway. I hope to get back to a sensible amount of online presence sometime. Meanwhile i’ll keep dipping in for the occasional needed virtual hug.
Sorry to hear about the one, and glad to hear about the other.
Guess this means that things like this are possible after all. Which is something I need to keep in mind, as I’ve gone back to being convinced that the Object Of My Obsessions is going to be forever out of my reach. We had a beautiful and personal internet chat on Saturday, which capped off a great week. Since then, not a word. And this week is shaping up to be as miserable as last week was wonderful.
Life.
Remember, there’s nothing inherently wrong with workplace romance–it is, after all, where most people meet their future partners. Even if he is your supervisor, it’s not like he’s abusing his position of authority. Sounds more like you’re playing your position, if you will. So long as you both keep things in perspective, I predict good things.
And yoga: nice one. If you recall, me and Elle used to refer to our intimacy as “chess”. “Up for a game of chess tonight?” Every relationship has a set of code words. Or should.
Chris: Speaking of abundance, now would be a nice time for the money to start rolling in. Sam and I both want to get the hell out of town, so maybe I could take him to Europe with me and write a blog that turns into a runaway bestseller and then you all would be going, “Hey, I knew her when she was just anonymous little AlienBaby writing for an audience of three.”
Mand: Glad you’re caught up, at least on the latest. Woo indeed, eh.
Russ: I don’t have any idea what your caveat about keeping things in perspective means (although the way you said it sounds like a bucket of icewater dumped over our heads), but I sure know my perspective has changed, or is changing. I’m not sure I had things in perspective BEFORE.
And I’m still, to be honest, wavering some. Old habits die VERY hard. I feel like a newly blind person trying to teach herself to see with other senses. I’m not used to not feeling 100 percent sold. But I also know it’s easier in some ways to feel totally sold on someone unattainable. Which is the norm for me.
Speaking of people who are or seem unattainable, I’m sorry that SKL feels that way to you right now, but Saturday isn’t that long ago, and she does seem to always make time for you. Did you talk at all about the potential living arrangements?
I would keep wavering, if i were you. Not saying it will or even may end badly, but if you keep that possibility in mind it will be even better when all turns out well!
Remember everything changes – not always for either the worse or the better, but sometimes just in texture (eg good ‘honeymoon period’ into good ‘comfy habit’) – which i know you know anyway.
On LiveJournal i am a fan despite myself (hate being a groupie) of the Ferrett http://theferrett.livejournal.com/ and lately his wife of about eight years http://zoethe.livejournal.com/ – they (especially he) blog about all kinds of stuff, some of which doesn’t interest me, some of which is out of my realm of experience, but the ones about why their relationship continues to work (eg her, three days ago) are wise, well-expressed and wonderful. Alliteration unintended.
Mand, I love your tolerance for ambiguity.
I’m trying to take my coach friend’s advice and just stay in the moment. It’s kind of fun sneaking a furtive kiss at work when no one is around. It’s not saying too much at all to say that I love Sam. Really, and no matter what happens with us. I haven’t been carried away by the usual intoxications. But I do kind of miss those usual intoxications.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
You probably figured I’m going to ask this but are you waiting to be in Europe to publish the bestseller? Your public wants it now.
Keep things in perspective–meaning that you’re undertaking a workplace relationship (an “office affair”) about a week after one just scandalized everyone there. And with your supervisor, not just a fellow phone jockey; that ought to make upper management nervous regardless of context. You may not view your current job as a career, but certainly you don’t want to jeopardize things right now? That’s all I’m saying.
Best to keep things furtive. That, and you were just saying that one of your co-workers was asking you to a ball game, and you were wanting to show you appreciated the offer without disclosing your other, higher priority. Good move: something like this can really disrupt office morale–and what’s more, depending on the personalities there, the fact that you’re both happy with each other can have a more adverse effect than if it were a simple fling. I was in middle management for five years, and I saw office sex go just about every way possible. Sure, I attended four weddings during my time there, two of which were between erstwhile co-workers. I’ve also seen workplace jealousy tear a customer service department asunder. Be adult about it, but also be as discreet as you can. The sex may be safe, but the workplace angle is high-risk.
I also have a TMI question about soreness, but I’ll ask that off-book.
Chris: LOL
Russ: That’s exactly the kind of perspective I have every intention of losing! Jon’s death made me re-prioritize.
Besides which:
There are 6 supervisors whose main job is to monitor callers for quality control and give them feedback. I was there a month before I even met Sam (guess I was doing well).
There are no written or even informal policies about mating among the ranks. If Patrick hadn’t been accused of assaulting Brittany there would probably be no scandal.
The average T-fund employee has been there no longer than six months.
If the company did random drug testing, at least half of us would fail. And probably fifty percent of employees have criminal records.
The other night Sam said during our marathon date, “People just wouldn’t react the same way about us. They’d probably be happy for us.” He had a point. I don’t know who else at that place is more universally liked than we are (not to be conceited or nothin’).
BTW, the soreness I’m referring to is muscle soreness. As in using muscles in your thighs you’d forgotten you even had. Until they start SCREAMING.
Oh, and I did talk to Drew. I told him I had “something else going on,” meaning someone else, and he didn’t ask any questions at all! I had already reassured him of my great liking and affection for him, and that was enough for him.
Sounds like you should be safe, so let me say just one last thing: the job you’re risking isn’t your own, it’s his. When I say keep your perspective, that’s what I mean.
He’s the supervisor, and the male. And in a workplace with as high a turnover as you’re talking about (where texting on a cell while you’re on the floor will get you called out), if they decide to jettison anyone over something like this, it’ll be him and not you. I’m all for your newfound playpartner and your sense of liberation, but it’s one thing to stop worrying about your own inhibitions, it’s another if that license affects others. I know I’m probably making too much of this, so I’ll stop, but if that hadn’t occurred to you I thought I should mention it.
I thought you were talking about that dyspenuria, which I have a few questions about. Or, as the Object Of My Obsessions would say, “I’m sore, but in a good way.”
Aw, hell, Russ. An old timer was telling me about how one of the supervisors before was this half-dressed woman with cleavage out to here who got her job (at least she always said so!) because she was sleeping with one of the directors. Trust me, this place is crazier than any other workplace I’ve ever worked in. And even at the bookstore, which had a lot more protocols and policies, one of the GMs was always on the prowl for fresh meat. I was just being exceedingly cautious here because I’m always afraid of how people will react.
Do you really think I’d want to do anything that would hurt Sam? It’s not just about me, me, me and my own liberation, it’s about knowing what the fuck’s important in life after losing someone I should have loved with all my heart but didn’t because I got too caught up in stupid shit that didn’t matter. Life’s too short to keep making the same mistake. That was the whole point of the story.
Sam may be young, but he’s no child. He can make his own choices. He’s about ready to move on, anyway. Neither of us is making a career of this, we’re both kind of over it.
About the last item, it wasn’t an issue at all. Not even a little bit. Sometimes it’s not.
Can I just reiterate to you people how insanely effing great this whole thing with Sam is, not to mention Sam himself? I don’t think I’ve ever been with anyone, of any age, with whom I am more compatible, sexually or otherwise. It’s so easy and so lovely to be with him. I had a scare this weekend when his phone stopped working — I was totally frantic — but he came over and made it all better.
He just left after another delightful evening, actually…he wanted to sleep at home tonight. He needs his solitary time as much as I do — another plus. He says we should probably sit down with the more mature of the two remaining directors before long. “It’s the right thing to do.” (He’s been picking up much of the slack left by our erstwhile director, btw, without any extra pay.) I told him I’d be happy to sign an affadavit saying the whole thing was my idea. Even if he is the managerial one, I’m the one who’s supposed to be old enough to know better.
We don’t anticipate problems, but to quote Sam, “It’s only a job.” He reinforces my perspective on the whole thing, even when I worry. I am so in love with this kiddo. Just call me Maude.
Maude?
btw Don’t sign anything! Nothing on paper.
Not that it is likely to come to that.
Sounds like things are going swimmingly. I envy the both of you, singly and collectively. As for any workplace conflicts, there’s always the possibility things will get complicated, but if you’re comfortable enough (and don’t act as though you’re guilty–just discreet) then everything should be all right. It’s like he said, odds are everyone will be happy for you two.
A solid week has passed, and still haven’t heard a word from the Object Of My Obsessions. Sure, she’s got a lot to do, and is transitioning from a swing shift to graveyard–but you’d think she’d be more responsive. I mean, she had said she’ll start shipping her stuff to my place come next week or so; is that still the plan? I don’t want to press her on the matter, but the silence is discouraging. Just to be safe, I talked to another friend last week, he’s interested in moving in if she backs out. And money’s getting tight(er), so something’s gotta happen soon.
Christ, at this rate, I’ll never quit drinking.
Never mind all that. I’m happy for the two of you and your newfound joy. Only: don’t say “effing”. Say “fucking”. It is, after all, what you mean–
Mand: as in “Harold and Maude.” Cult classic of the May-December romance. Not that I’m December! September at the latest. And I was kidding about the affadavit. I was just making a point about how in earnest I was while we were making a rather long goodbye, as most of our goodbyes tend to be, with a whole lotta kissin’.
Russ: thanks buddy! Don’t give up yet. Can’t you just ask her when you should expect her stuff?
p.s. I had to wear concealer all over my neck today! Like some teenager who got carried away at the drive in!
Heh, heh, heh.
Uh huh.
I just requested “White Palace” from Netflix. Story is about an “inappropriate” romance between a 44-year-old waitress (Susan Sarandon) and a 27-year-old yuppie (James Spader). It features one of my favorite exchanges of dialogue ever:
Max: All I know is that when I’m not with you I’m a total wreck.
Nora: And when you are with me?
Max: I’m a different kind of total wreck.
I was a “total wreck” this weekend when I didn’t know where Sam was or what was going on with his phone.
I’ve never been in lurve like that.
Re ‘inappropriate’, when at school i had a friend at boarding school whose best-friend-come-mother-substitute was his history teacher. I stayed at her house (in the school grounds) and got to know her quite well. She, in her 30s, was having an affair, phrase i dislike but ykwim, with a sixth former… all seemed natural, unusual but then at that time i was getting used to a lot of people taking a lot of things for granted that were new to me. Nowadays if my 42yo self gets too middle-aged about an age gap or anything, i remind myself how easily i took that relationship as normal. It was, yep, ‘officially’ between a member of staff and one of the pupils towards whom she was in a position of responsibility – but in human terms it was a love affair and it was certainly, from her side, innocent. I mean she was in love with innocence and even naivety, not abusing his trust. (I know! I heard her anxious and tormented and pining!)
For us Yanks across the lake, what’s a sixth former?
Oh, ye foreigners.
After Year 11 (which is probably the same as 11th Grade?), when public exams (GCSEs) are taken and legal school-leaving age (16) attained, the next two years are the sixth form. This harks back to when Year 7 (the year in which you turn 11) was called Upper Third: count up through U3 or as we wrote it UIII, LIV, UIV, LV, UV, and then Lower and Upper VI. Not that anyone still in school now would be able to tell you the forms were called things like Upper Three. Never read Enid Blyton?
Calling it Y11 is quite new actually. For a long time the secondary years (starting with Y7) were the first year, second year etc up to 4th or 5th (changing when the age changed at which you went from primary to secondary).
I’m sure you can work out what primary and secondary are.
You realise there have been a lot of changes in our educational system in the last few decades!
Wow, I’m even more confused. But I’m guessing the person in question was 17 or 18?
Just got back from Sam’s and an evening with a few of his closest buddies. Wonder if I passed their evaluation! Not that I care that much. We had some beers, they smoked, and we watched “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” on DVD. At least during the movie I got to curl up with Sam, pals’ watchful eyes be damned. But it was definitely a throwback to my college and post-collegiate days — so strange — and did remind me of how old he really is. Sam is different when they’re around. Funny but when I’m alone with Sam I don’t feel the age difference at all. We have this private amazing magical universe of two and when he touches me I melt into molten lava. He’s simply the best I’ve ever had.
I can’t wait to see White Palace again. Something tells me it will be tres apropos.
Yep, either 18 or nearly, as he took his A Levels when i knew them.
If i’d said that to start with it would have been simpler!
You remind me of a friend; part of what she fell for in her husband was his brains, but when they had a party that was mainly his friends, and they were mainly uni friends, she had a job dealing with the flat (oops, apartment) being full of ‘university people’ – i remember the way she said that phrase. I know i that when i’m with a bunch of old school friends, i’m suddenly a High School girl again so i saw what she meant. Don’t we all do it?
Have you had any feedback, firsthand or secondhand, from Sam’s friends?
No, but one of his best buddies is another supervisor, so that cat’s out of the bag! The other two were college friends, a young couple who are crashing on his couch. He said they would probably “debrief” him later. I reiterated that it doesn’t really matter to me what anyone says, I have 100 rational reasons why this won’t work, myself, but I’m listening to something other than my mind. He agreed that in some situations logic is useless.
Our political views are actually quite different, and some of the things that come out of his mouth surprise me. I’m hoping those obstacles don’t grow too big. Does love really conquer all? Sam has basically given me everything I ever wanted and never had, and I have to say that it’s much better having it.
I’ve always wondered how the hell James Carville and Mary Matalin do it.
What a sweet story…thanks for sharing it. I enjoyed the last one too.
Luv, your grateful female reader.