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amulI am sitting at a cafe in Pittsburgh. I want to tell my friend about Gaian Mind, about how strangely serene I was, how vibrantly different I felt compared to three years ago. I want to express this nebulous thought about heartache and change, how to work it into the Ignorant Savage piece I am working on.
Instead, I am talking about Ziggy.
"I'm just so worried about her," my friend says, and her face blurs into the face of a hundred friends having this same single conversation with me. I know, but she's a big girl, she can take care of herself, I tell her, and try to not express my raging frustration.
"I mean, have you met this guy she's traveling with? He's a total..." I interrupt her. I know nothing about him and I don't want to know. I'll meet him when they come to Chicago. She doesn't get the hint.
"Aren't you worried about her? How can you not be insanely worried? Hitchhiking? In this day and age? It's so dangerous!" I grit my teeth and spit out my mantra. She is a big girl and she can take care of herself. "I mean, how does she eat? Where does she get the money to travel?" I've stopped telling people that it's no longer my place to worry. She's doing fine, she's in Georgia right now and she's got a wedding gig she's prepping for. I've stopped telling people that I am worried, too. She calls me, and that's enough. She calls and lets me know she's alive and unhurt and her heart is as yet unbroken by the road and it has to be enough. I'm not her boyfriend anymore, and that's another thing I've stopped telling people.
She'll probably call when she reads this entry, even. She'll call and let me know she's alright and we'll continue to fumble through the host of insecurities that lie around this friendship we're trying to build. I'll hear her Traveling Companion muttering to himself in the background, and a cruel part of me will hope he'll be jealous of the call.
I don't tell the girl with the coffee cup in her hand any of that, either.
"You let her know that if she ever needs to be bailed out of jail, I'll come get her. If she ever gets into trouble, I've got her back." Is it a weakness in me that I want to sneer? Is my urge to reach out and slap this girl for putting the image in my head of my Achingly Defiant (no longer, no longer) behind bars, is it some leftover bit of Boyfriendness that I must excise? Is it okay for me to want to reach out and throttle her and scream It's not my place anymore. I never told her what to do and I'm not going to start now and I'd rather she made all the mistakes she aches to make because they'll make her into a woman I want her to be. It's NOT MY PLACE anymore.
But I don't do any of that, either. I want to talk about Gaian Mind, or Angel and how much better She is doing, or how happy I am in Chicago. I could talk about all the potential photography gigs I've found in the last five days. Maybe tell stories about how cool all my new friends are. But I don't do any of that. I just heave a weary sigh and tell her she's more likely to call me than anybody, and she knows the lengths I go to for ex-girlfriends. If she needs help, she'll call me. But she's a big girl, and she can take care of herself.
In my head, Ziggy whispers, "Sometimes I want to pout and stamp my foot and demand to go home."
I don't ask why she didn't make it Ziggy's Going Away Party, either.
Four hours later, I have the same conversation. I don't talk about Gaian Mind, or photography, or the astoundingly cool girl that's entered my thoughts and won't go away. I just tell the new face that she's a big girl, and she can take care of herself, and I know she'll call me if she ever gets into trouble too deep for her to handle.
Instead, I am talking about Ziggy.
"I'm just so worried about her," my friend says, and her face blurs into the face of a hundred friends having this same single conversation with me. I know, but she's a big girl, she can take care of herself, I tell her, and try to not express my raging frustration.
"I mean, have you met this guy she's traveling with? He's a total..." I interrupt her. I know nothing about him and I don't want to know. I'll meet him when they come to Chicago. She doesn't get the hint.
"Aren't you worried about her? How can you not be insanely worried? Hitchhiking? In this day and age? It's so dangerous!" I grit my teeth and spit out my mantra. She is a big girl and she can take care of herself. "I mean, how does she eat? Where does she get the money to travel?" I've stopped telling people that it's no longer my place to worry. She's doing fine, she's in Georgia right now and she's got a wedding gig she's prepping for. I've stopped telling people that I am worried, too. She calls me, and that's enough. She calls and lets me know she's alive and unhurt and her heart is as yet unbroken by the road and it has to be enough. I'm not her boyfriend anymore, and that's another thing I've stopped telling people.
She'll probably call when she reads this entry, even. She'll call and let me know she's alright and we'll continue to fumble through the host of insecurities that lie around this friendship we're trying to build. I'll hear her Traveling Companion muttering to himself in the background, and a cruel part of me will hope he'll be jealous of the call.
I don't tell the girl with the coffee cup in her hand any of that, either.
"You let her know that if she ever needs to be bailed out of jail, I'll come get her. If she ever gets into trouble, I've got her back." Is it a weakness in me that I want to sneer? Is my urge to reach out and slap this girl for putting the image in my head of my Achingly Defiant (no longer, no longer) behind bars, is it some leftover bit of Boyfriendness that I must excise? Is it okay for me to want to reach out and throttle her and scream It's not my place anymore. I never told her what to do and I'm not going to start now and I'd rather she made all the mistakes she aches to make because they'll make her into a woman I want her to be. It's NOT MY PLACE anymore.
But I don't do any of that, either. I want to talk about Gaian Mind, or Angel and how much better She is doing, or how happy I am in Chicago. I could talk about all the potential photography gigs I've found in the last five days. Maybe tell stories about how cool all my new friends are. But I don't do any of that. I just heave a weary sigh and tell her she's more likely to call me than anybody, and she knows the lengths I go to for ex-girlfriends. If she needs help, she'll call me. But she's a big girl, and she can take care of herself.
In my head, Ziggy whispers, "Sometimes I want to pout and stamp my foot and demand to go home."
I don't ask why she didn't make it Ziggy's Going Away Party, either.
Four hours later, I have the same conversation. I don't talk about Gaian Mind, or photography, or the astoundingly cool girl that's entered my thoughts and won't go away. I just tell the new face that she's a big girl, and she can take care of herself, and I know she'll call me if she ever gets into trouble too deep for her to handle.
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Date: 29 Jun 2005 20:17 (UTC)