Last night I dreamt about my ex. This is not a common occurrence, as our split was rather acrimonious and didn't exactly represent the finest moments of yours truly. It's funny. We spent five years together, even were engaged for a brief while there before things got bad. And yet I hardly ever think about her, and never dream about her. She curled into the space my arms reserved for her warm body and hers only for so long, yet I never wake up in the middle of the night feeling her absence. I guess much of that has to do with the mind protecting itself from pain, regret, loss, whatever name you want to lend to a boundless guilt and a stubborn love.
Then last night. Out of nowhere really. I hadn't pored over the emails and chats I have saved; I've only done that once or twice since it all ended. They're all stowed away on my external hard drive, so that there are enough intervening steps to access them that a lazy bastard like myself won't take the effort casually. I have to be in a certain wistful or self-flagellating mood, in the former of which I find myself too often, and latter I avoid for the sake of what sanity to which I can lay claim. Even after dreaming about her, I haven't taken that step. It seems a silly thing, no? What harm could reading a request for a tea while coming home from the library late do? Or a quick note to let me know she'd be in the studio, just in case I'd be coming that way (which, of course, I would make sure to do). Just a few clicks and an entire past opens up before your eyes.
Honestly, it's the mundane things like that that hit harder and deeper than any long-winded professorial exhortation on my part (typical) or a simple "yes or no?" on hers. When all's said and done, it's not the breathless nights making out under a summer moon on a silent beach that stay with you; it's a Saturday morning waking up together with bad breath, blearily trying to decide what to do for breakfast, whether to go out with friends tonight or spend the night in, whether or not to check out the Unitarian church tomorrow morning. Most people will read that last sentence and respond, "well no shit, Ben," but it's taken me some time to get there. Chalk it up either to inexperience or immaturity: both are accurate. I'm 26, never been in a more serious relationship, and -- with no prospects on the horizon -- am not likely to be in the near future at least, but it seems that love constitutes itself out of the small moments, the seemingly irrelevant that can mean everything.
I dreamt of her. In the dream, she came to me -- I forget where we were, some nebulous here or there in dream time -- and forgave me. She held my hand, and we went out to eat and then theater, though it wasn't relevant where. Whatever my brain was telling me in my midnight haze, it had nothing to do with cuisine or film. I drank in those cheekbones, those electric eyes, alive with everything that inspires passion, held her (always cold) hands in mind, and took her back to our place, made love (I hate that phrase for its stock-ness, but can't think of a better one that takes in both the physical act and its meaning for the pair involved), and woke up around three. Her thin arms were draped around my neck and her breath was soft and low. I looked out the window and saw snow and stars.
That was the dream anyway. Its interpretation seems pretty straightforward, yet what was jarring was just the fact of finding myself entangled in this girl again, this girl I loved so much and still do in a complicated way, yet will likely never see again. C'est la vie, no?
2.29.2012
2.19.2012
Conundrum
I've been intending to plant an herb garden for the first time in my life this year (first time I will have, in fact, planted anything aside from my face), and just realized how dangerously close to spring we're getting. So seeds need to get planted sometime in the very near and approaching future. Research and planning done pronto, and so on.
Problem is, I know absolutely nothing about this shit -- aside from that it takes seeds, sunlight, water, and dirt. And a truly anal tendency to fret about your plants day and night, which should be no problem. I know what I want to plant and where, so I guess it could be worse. But I want fresh basil to garnish my tom kha gai, fresh dill for my scrambled eggs (am I the only one who does this? I get confused looks every time I mention this particular practice I doubt I will ever abandon), fresh rosemary for my pork tenderloin, etc. So I need to figure this out and quickly. I think I'm going to take a trip over to the nearest nursery and have an extended chat with someone there who can remedy my ignorance, has a spare minute and can point me in the right direction for next step.
There's really no particular point to this post, other than that this is weighing on my mind and feel like writing and don't feel like writing the pieces I probably should be writing. Although if anyone who reads this has any suggestions on, say, a book or documentary, a website, somewhere I can do some research? I'd appreciate it. Of course, any personal learning experiences are much appreciated as well. I have the feeling I'm going to spend a lot of time kneeling in dirt just to wind up with some truly pathetic shoots, if I'm lucky even to get that far.
Problem is, I know absolutely nothing about this shit -- aside from that it takes seeds, sunlight, water, and dirt. And a truly anal tendency to fret about your plants day and night, which should be no problem. I know what I want to plant and where, so I guess it could be worse. But I want fresh basil to garnish my tom kha gai, fresh dill for my scrambled eggs (am I the only one who does this? I get confused looks every time I mention this particular practice I doubt I will ever abandon), fresh rosemary for my pork tenderloin, etc. So I need to figure this out and quickly. I think I'm going to take a trip over to the nearest nursery and have an extended chat with someone there who can remedy my ignorance, has a spare minute and can point me in the right direction for next step.
There's really no particular point to this post, other than that this is weighing on my mind and feel like writing and don't feel like writing the pieces I probably should be writing. Although if anyone who reads this has any suggestions on, say, a book or documentary, a website, somewhere I can do some research? I'd appreciate it. Of course, any personal learning experiences are much appreciated as well. I have the feeling I'm going to spend a lot of time kneeling in dirt just to wind up with some truly pathetic shoots, if I'm lucky even to get that far.
2.17.2012
Annoying Yet Less So Than It Should Be
listening to a song that's on brain repeat on some serious terms repeatedly, even knowing that you're going to hit "play" once more. now that shit is annoying. but so good.
2.16.2012
The Best Story in Sports Practically No One is Talking About
Linsanity. I know, I know. It transcends sports, attracts the attention of the President of the United States, makes one of the most maligned NBA franchises other than the Charlotte Bobcats suddenly relevant. But the real story is in Texas, as inspiring and electric as Lin has been.
That story with the himself electric and in his way enigmatic Josh Hamilton, the 2010 AL and ALCS MVP who also was the first player drafted in the 1999 MLB draft by the Tampa Bay then-Devil Rays. A man who struggled with drug and alcohol use for the better part of the '00s -- famously, if you pay attention to this sort of thing. It's no secret he dropped out of baseball entirely from 2004 to 2006, only to re-emerge in stunning fashion as the Roy Hobbs of the Texas Rangers.
His recent (much-publicized) relapse with alcohol abuse wasn't the sort of thing that surprises an addict. His frankness in admitting to his personal failures and human nature testified, however, to both his willingness to change the former and attest to the latter. It showed his family, friends, and fans that Josh Hamilton knows he screwed up, but wants desperately to change.
Josh Hamilton is a fortunate human being. He's a preternaturally gifted athlete, a man who can drive a ball further with a flick of a ham-sized wrist than I can probably see. He's got more money than I'll probably make in my life. His failings are public, because that's the way of baseball, and of professional sports -- or even high-profile amateur sports -- in general. People care about him, what he does, what he doesn't do, because he matters. To a substantial investor class and largely disappointed fan base, he matters.
So what he does in his off time matters. There are few things that make a fan sad than a wasted high draft pick. Ask Wizards or Blazers fans alone about Kwame Brown or Greg Oden (just to name recent examples from one professional US league alone), how they feel about management bollocksing top draft picks. They don't exactly come around all the time. To draft a guy and watch him waste it all on alcohol and his particular drug cocktail is not only a nut-blow to the fans (and management) but a sad thing to watch.
In Hamilton's case though, there seemed to be a happy turn: traded to the Rangers in 2008, he completely annihilated opposing pitching in spring training and won the starting CF job. With a .304/.371/.530 he hadn't even gotten started with AL pitching, feasting on division cohorts like Felix "The King" Hernandez, posting a .359/.411/.633 line with a 7.0 WAR and a 170 OPS+ (all stats cited courtesy of baseball-reference.com) in that 2010 MVP season. And aside from the production, he led the Rangers to consecutive World Series, falling respectively to the Giants and the Cardinals. But he led them there, and consecutive pennants is nothing at which to scoff.
The man's a great ballplayer. That he slipped in his battle with addiction recently comes as neither a surprise nor a disappointment. I'm not going to judge the man for slipping; if anything else, a crime, any other ethical misdoing occurred, then it's on him. Yet so far, Hamilton has been forthcoming, saying he did wrong, he slipped, he's seeking and working toward help, and most importantly earnestly desires it.
Hamilton, however, is a flawed dude seeking redemption and desperately hoping to find it. Isn't that us all?
That story with the himself electric and in his way enigmatic Josh Hamilton, the 2010 AL and ALCS MVP who also was the first player drafted in the 1999 MLB draft by the Tampa Bay then-Devil Rays. A man who struggled with drug and alcohol use for the better part of the '00s -- famously, if you pay attention to this sort of thing. It's no secret he dropped out of baseball entirely from 2004 to 2006, only to re-emerge in stunning fashion as the Roy Hobbs of the Texas Rangers.
His recent (much-publicized) relapse with alcohol abuse wasn't the sort of thing that surprises an addict. His frankness in admitting to his personal failures and human nature testified, however, to both his willingness to change the former and attest to the latter. It showed his family, friends, and fans that Josh Hamilton knows he screwed up, but wants desperately to change.
Josh Hamilton is a fortunate human being. He's a preternaturally gifted athlete, a man who can drive a ball further with a flick of a ham-sized wrist than I can probably see. He's got more money than I'll probably make in my life. His failings are public, because that's the way of baseball, and of professional sports -- or even high-profile amateur sports -- in general. People care about him, what he does, what he doesn't do, because he matters. To a substantial investor class and largely disappointed fan base, he matters.
So what he does in his off time matters. There are few things that make a fan sad than a wasted high draft pick. Ask Wizards or Blazers fans alone about Kwame Brown or Greg Oden (just to name recent examples from one professional US league alone), how they feel about management bollocksing top draft picks. They don't exactly come around all the time. To draft a guy and watch him waste it all on alcohol and his particular drug cocktail is not only a nut-blow to the fans (and management) but a sad thing to watch.
In Hamilton's case though, there seemed to be a happy turn: traded to the Rangers in 2008, he completely annihilated opposing pitching in spring training and won the starting CF job. With a .304/.371/.530 he hadn't even gotten started with AL pitching, feasting on division cohorts like Felix "The King" Hernandez, posting a .359/.411/.633 line with a 7.0 WAR and a 170 OPS+ (all stats cited courtesy of baseball-reference.com) in that 2010 MVP season. And aside from the production, he led the Rangers to consecutive World Series, falling respectively to the Giants and the Cardinals. But he led them there, and consecutive pennants is nothing at which to scoff.
The man's a great ballplayer. That he slipped in his battle with addiction recently comes as neither a surprise nor a disappointment. I'm not going to judge the man for slipping; if anything else, a crime, any other ethical misdoing occurred, then it's on him. Yet so far, Hamilton has been forthcoming, saying he did wrong, he slipped, he's seeking and working toward help, and most importantly earnestly desires it.
Hamilton, however, is a flawed dude seeking redemption and desperately hoping to find it. Isn't that us all?
2.06.2012
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