Underthecurrent


I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner
April 26, 2017, 1:06 am
Filed under: insight, nostalgia

On the street, passing by, is it?  This is about to get Alanis Morisette 1995.

It’s easy to put a lot of the pieces together.  She’s still around, years later.  Did she know, then, who the clothes in the closet belonged to?  Did she know anything?  Since me, it seems, only her.  Almost satisfying.

They’re not married, not engaged, she puts up a picture of a faux rock, makes a joke.  In that way, you know.  The picture stream is:  disposable beverage cups, gym selfies, a Vegas trip or two, some generic warm holidays (but not so many, and nothing too exotic).  Collects stuffed animals.  Posts average plates of food, variable lighting, enthusiastic captions.  Makes fun of his outdated wardrobe, comments he hardly cooks.

This is what’s so strange.

He always cooked for me, sometimes we’d cook together.  Have dinner parties for friends. He was particular about his clothes and holidays, expensive taste.

She’s not much like me.

Everything is as it should be, nothing seems dark, nothing seems private.  No wit, no mess.  She gave up her career, or what seems like a career, to muddle along out here in a hard stream that doesn’t seem to be paying off.  The ultimate supporter.

All this time, I had imagined this fabulous life after me.  Someone perfect, more challenging, funnier.  Someone with her life together, who could carry the conversation at the party that much better.  They’d spend holidays on the ski hills and at expensive island resorts.  He’d buy her romantic gifts and cards, the kind I can’t remember getting, make time to visit her.  They would live somewhere amazing, a perfect house, this remarkable life.  Effortlessly successful and happy.  Everything we never were but should have been on paper.

And there wasn’t much regret, because it went on too long and was often so tepid (why are all the memories this white noise fuzz? Where there should be bright flashes?), but don’t you wonder if sometimes his mind wanders all the way back through those years, to the last wild thing, the crazy one.

 

 



fine.
April 18, 2017, 12:11 am
Filed under: when I grow up, work work work work work

In ten days, finally, finally, everyone can know and the end can begin.

Presently, trying to muster up enough to keep working.  Keep working for three, four, five more days.  The only thing that sounds like a good idea are carbohydrates.  Caffeine does nothing.  Naps are a panacea.

A lot of things are on track.  There’s a spreadsheet with running totals and projections, it says everything is fine.

Everything is fine.



working for the weekend
April 15, 2017, 3:53 am
Filed under: work work work work work

Up in the mountains, beside the fire, on a sort of involuntary holiday, that isn’t really a holiday because there is a seemingly endless stack of work.  There’s still snow this year, making shoulder season into peak season.  Trying to block out the thoughts of what would be happening now but for the looming deadlines next week.

More than ten years ago, different mountains, around this time of year.  There was no snow then.  Cleaning rooms like this, the thousand point checklist, hospital corners.

Everyone looks exhausted leaving for the weekend, strangers in the lift.  For almost all of us, if we are here, this time of day, it’s because the weekend is just a number of days where work will be done somewhere else.

 



April 7, 2017, 11:20 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Write, erase, write, erase.