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  Makes fun of his outdated wardrobe, comments he hardly cooks.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.

 

 

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Gawker is Dead
August 23, 2016, 5:13 am
Filed under: nostalgia, Uncategorized

It’s 2005.

Returning from the USA, I finally join Facebook, maybe to see the pictures my friends are posting.  In a school of about 20,000 there are less than 100 in my university network.  You need a North American university email to join at this point, I think.  Imagine.

I tell my roommate about this thing, Facebook.

“That sounds dumb,” he says.

A significant amount of time not studying, so pretty much all the time, is spent reading blogs.  It’s 2005 and I’m reading posts on Gawker about The Misshapes and whatever else they want to write about.  I think they directed me to Tracie Egan’s then anon One D at a Time.  It’s a strange land, with sprinklings of celebrity before the Kardashians.  I read a lot of Gawker at this point, so much that I become convinced everyone is reading it, and that eventually I will need to go to New York.

“You know, like Gawker” I say to a classmate.

“What’s Gawker?” he says.

I explain, sort of.  Something.

“Why would anyone care about that?” he says.

It’s 2016 and today is the day that one of those things indirectly destroys the other.