This morning, very early –

or late last night depending on your temporal perspective, you said “I love you” for the first time. It felt so good to hear. I had been making a great effort to not say it – not because I wanted to see who could hold out longest, but because it is a very serious phrase, of a strength similar to “I promise.” Hearing those three words made my day, and probably made my life.

- sent at 12:09 pm on August 31, 2009

aphoristic

I recently heard someone on the radio whining about how no one loved her for who she is. I couldn’t help thinking to myself that she should work on becoming a better who.

I thought about what a lovely slogan this idea could be turned into, and spent a little too much time daydreaming goofy bumper stickers. Here is what I think I’ve settled on:

If no one loves you for who you are, become a better you.

It felt good to resist that part of me who wanted to respond to the woman on the radio, “Maybe that’s cause you suck, hon.”

Photo from the past

I love this photo from so many months ago. Between courses during lunch at Maiko’s, we all splintered off and did different things. This was just a random snap. It almost looks to me like a bad scene in a terrible play; but it brings back good memories.

To my former infatuation/obsession/love:

This is about the time I’d be almost ready to consider starting over.

You asked, so many months ago, when/if I would know for sure.

Sorry it took so long.

Glad we moved on.

wail and gnash

A painful year came to an end, and I never took the time to do some kind of happy new year post. It’s far too late for that now. I guess it’s never too late to hope the year will be happy, and to beg that it will be easier than the last, but the reality is stark: obscurity lingers, and time moves much too quickly.

I don’t really dwell on personal details here. There is not enough vitriol in the world to fuel a full-blown screed on my part. That is not why I started doing the blog thing. From time to time, anecdotes and laments have crept in, but I’ve just never been the sharing kind. I have plenty of very good friends, and I’m not afraid to burden them with my woes, because one who won’t listen is not a friend. Of course it is painful to find that one you thought of as a friend is merely an acquaintance or a co-worker, but… well, better late than never (or is it?). Often I don’t talk about my problems because I want time to work them through for myself. I either work it out, or I’m too embarrassed, after a little reflection, to admit that I’ve been foolish. That’s the case with this past year; though my friends – and some acquaintances – have shared in my wailing and gnashing of teeth to some extent, I’m embarrassed to say that I brought it all on myself.

I spent a year lolling about, really. 2006 dawned, and I looked around and thought, “where did the time go?” I made some mental lists of things to accomplish and change, and did nothing. I had some enjoyable moments in those twelve months, to be sure, but I was wilfully blind to what was going on, and what I was doing to myself. I want to hold grudges and hate and blame, but in the end, I lost control of the whole situation. I was blind and lazy, and despite being jostled half out of my slumber several times, I continually dozed off.

I finally realized around Thanksgiving that I had taken the last 8-10 years of, in a way, just coasting, flitting on autopilot and doing nothing to improve myself. Collecting degrees means nothing when you put forth little effort in the collecting; dalliance doesn’t earn a PhD.

So here I am, halfway through the second month of this new year, and I really am no better off. Other being 12 weeks into the idea to pay more attention to my physical fitness, and having lost 25 lbs since Turkeytime, I still have no plan. Any suggestions?

What the hell is a Death Cab, anyway?

Has this ever happened to you: you’ve owned an album for quite some time, and listened to it – perhaps a bit passively – several times, and then all of a sudden it makes an impression on you? The song was “This Charming Man,” a cover of an old Smiths song, as rendered by Death Cab for Cutie. It was one of those odd moments – I instantly thought I liked the cover better than the original. An irrational thought, really, since I’d not actively compared the two, and I didn’t for a while, until just now when the “party shuffle” brought the issue back to my attention. Ben Gibbard doesn’t even attempt to mimic Morrissey’s florid vocals, and the two renditions have entirely different textures. I saw Morrissey in concert at the rather tragic Aragon just before Thanksgiving; rumor had it that he was on a layover between a show in Mexico and his home in Rome, and wanted to make a quick buck to pay for first class on the way home – he had no other US shows for that tour, apparently. It’s an adorable – and doubtless apocryphal – anecdote. So I’m really in over my head with this post, as I have no experience trying to write about music. Ironically, the Death Cab version sounds more punk. On direct comparison, I think I like the original a bit more, and for an entirely silly reason: the guitar is just so cute!

Wow, this post took pretty long to go nowhere.

I ain’t no Proust, but…

Though I was never a very heavy “smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” type – I’d estimate an average pack a week – I’ve noticed one thing since I stopped the dirty habit on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. My sense of smell has improved. This is common knowledge, and oft-touted by the advocates of a smoke-free world, but my smell has always been so keen that I could not care less. The difference is striking, however.

Last night, as I drifted off to sleep a little voice in my nose told me that I was smelling Hermès‘ Eau de Citron Vert. Though I had purchased a small bottle of the stuff duty-free before the family trip to Ireland in 1999, I calmly rebutted the nasal interlocutor, explaning that that was impossible, as I had run out of the cologne over a year ago; and if that was untrue, then I could certainly vouch for the fact that I’d not worn it recently; and failing that, I do not ever keep cologne near my bed. Spearmint/Eucalyptus Pillow spray, pehaps, but never any $40/ounce liquids. Did I keep the empty bottle in my medicine cabinet, and was it emitting waves so strong I could smell it from here?

This morning, I was treated to an explanation: My mother had given me a small bar of “Citron Vert” soap for Xmas, and I had for some reason put it into my gym bag. As I tore through the bag at some point, preparing for the early morning bell, I must have sent it flying out of it’s plastic case and under the bed.

There are worse things than falling asleep, lolling asleep, basking in the smell of lime flowers, lazily remembering the walk at Fontainebleau in May…