Back in Erie: Sal sleeping fitfully on my still-packed suitcase while Spunky's gotten even more skeletal. I'm so ambivalent - half of me wants to take him to the vet immediately, because he's eighteen and looks it, and I hate the thought that he could be in pain all this time and we might not know it. But I'm also convinced that, if we take him to the vet, he won't be coming back. That's what happened with Graham, two years back, and this cat is so old, and I'm afraid to take him in, knowing that it might mean the end. So I'm really torn there, and would appreciate advice/personal experiences/someone else to discuss the matter with, because my family seems to be leaving this up to me, and if we're taking him to the vet, I want to be here with him for it, whether it's just a brief check-up or his last outing.
Tonight, I got to watch my brother practice his Jiu-Jitsu moves on my poor mother. I got to have lunch and dinner out with my family; along with a long, cold car ride during which Greg and I had a ringtone singalong. I've listened to a lot of Rufus Wainwright today, and I've felt sort of strange, not in an entirely bad way, but in a way I'd be happy to leave soon, nonetheless. Maybe it's just getting back to Erie, remembering how little this city holds for me anymore. Memories abound, but they're mostly the sort that I'd rather shut out, all for different reasons that would fall under 'self-preservation.' Which reminds me. . .
One year ago, I was in London, and it was all late-night breakfast-making and taking turns napping on the tube and Billy Zane impersonations. These are things I'd like to forget. There was one evening, near the end of my visit, when we sat at the kitchen table in the dimming light, sipping weak tea and not saying very much; I was wearing his sweater and he touched my ankle and said, "You're not going to forget this, are you." It wasn't a question; I suppose he was right in that, because I haven't forgotten, but oh, how I'd like to. The good memories are the worst ones, because not a single one transcends regret, not after October. What I really remember are all the mistakes I made, all the times I said no and wasn't heard, the times I should have said no but didn't see the point anymore, the defensiveness and crying jags and trying to convince myself that this was all just a part of love. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing in love again; I feel like damaged goods. I'm doing my best to soldier on, but part of me worries that each failure only makes me harder to love, and I have such sad defense mechanisms at work, trying to keep people from caring too much, from getting in too deep.
That's the thing about Erie: it gives me too much time to remember, and the gray skies and slush-piled sidewalks inspire mostly sad recollections. Being back here, it's too easy to tally up all the people I've ever failed, to work out exactly what's wrong with me. I'm keeping my family close, to take me out of that; I'm cuddling with my cats and calling my girlfriend and trying hard to write something worth reading aloud, since Queer Conference is coming up and I want to write something funny and uplifting, something about community. I'm torn between two stories right now, and have spent too long staring at a blank document, trying to decide. I think I'll call it an early night. When I wake up, maybe I'll be rested and refreshed enough to attempt writing both. First thing, though: getting through the night without nightmares. With all that's on my mind, it seems unlikely. At least I've got Hanson to see me through any hard nights that come my way - it really is a lucky life.
Tonight, I got to watch my brother practice his Jiu-Jitsu moves on my poor mother. I got to have lunch and dinner out with my family; along with a long, cold car ride during which Greg and I had a ringtone singalong. I've listened to a lot of Rufus Wainwright today, and I've felt sort of strange, not in an entirely bad way, but in a way I'd be happy to leave soon, nonetheless. Maybe it's just getting back to Erie, remembering how little this city holds for me anymore. Memories abound, but they're mostly the sort that I'd rather shut out, all for different reasons that would fall under 'self-preservation.' Which reminds me. . .
One year ago, I was in London, and it was all late-night breakfast-making and taking turns napping on the tube and Billy Zane impersonations. These are things I'd like to forget. There was one evening, near the end of my visit, when we sat at the kitchen table in the dimming light, sipping weak tea and not saying very much; I was wearing his sweater and he touched my ankle and said, "You're not going to forget this, are you." It wasn't a question; I suppose he was right in that, because I haven't forgotten, but oh, how I'd like to. The good memories are the worst ones, because not a single one transcends regret, not after October. What I really remember are all the mistakes I made, all the times I said no and wasn't heard, the times I should have said no but didn't see the point anymore, the defensiveness and crying jags and trying to convince myself that this was all just a part of love. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing in love again; I feel like damaged goods. I'm doing my best to soldier on, but part of me worries that each failure only makes me harder to love, and I have such sad defense mechanisms at work, trying to keep people from caring too much, from getting in too deep.
That's the thing about Erie: it gives me too much time to remember, and the gray skies and slush-piled sidewalks inspire mostly sad recollections. Being back here, it's too easy to tally up all the people I've ever failed, to work out exactly what's wrong with me. I'm keeping my family close, to take me out of that; I'm cuddling with my cats and calling my girlfriend and trying hard to write something worth reading aloud, since Queer Conference is coming up and I want to write something funny and uplifting, something about community. I'm torn between two stories right now, and have spent too long staring at a blank document, trying to decide. I think I'll call it an early night. When I wake up, maybe I'll be rested and refreshed enough to attempt writing both. First thing, though: getting through the night without nightmares. With all that's on my mind, it seems unlikely. At least I've got Hanson to see me through any hard nights that come my way - it really is a lucky life.
1 comment:
Hey there. I can understand being stuck between a rock and a hard place with Spunky. At least you've been given the choice... with all of my pets, my parents have been the ones to go and just do and then never tell us until afterwards. Which is a horrible way to do it. I think it all comes down to what you feel is best in your heart. And I know that's probably crap help to you, and I'm sorry.
In other news, I miss you and I miss your family, I love reading about it though. It makes me smile (and also probably makes me sound a bit stalkerish)! Erie has a way of bringing up things we would rather just push to the back of our minds. It's funny though, because I was just in London this past Saturday and saw Wicked. It was so good and I had such a good time and I can see why you loved London so much and why you can't forget about it. Though there are things that go with it that you would. Right, well I've dragged on and on.. and I do apologise for missing you tonight, I had just walked out of the room for a moment and gone upstairs came back down and saw I missed a message from you. I won't miss it next time.
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