Crash

Memory is time, edited, running in reverse.

CRASH

Watching her sit across from me is like being hit with a ten foot wave. 

She sits there, slightly defiant, wearing the uniform -   Clothing cheap and too tight.  One or two piercings too many (though I am slightly jealous of the small stud in her nose).  Red eyes that speak of last night's misadventures and another set of buried memories.  Lots of colorful language thrown in (when she speaks, that is).   All she's missing is the team jacket with the "OTD United" name and logo on the back.

It's like being hit with a ten foot wave.

CRASH

She doesn't really want to talk.  But she also knows that I'm here to help.  She knows I'm not judging.

She looks me up and down through half lidded, furtive eyes.  "You don't look like you've been where I have been," she mutters, sullen.  The slight "Yeshivish" accent is still there though she is taking pains to hide it.

I smile, try to look non-threatening (in my smart business attire - I have after all, just come from work).  "Believe me, I have.  Not that long ago, in fact."

I smile again.  If she sees me as part of the establishment, then all I've done is waste the money I'm about to spend on drinks.

She gives me doubtful.  I excuse myself to get us drinks.  Large latte for me, huge ice coffee for her.  She's sucking through that straw like she's afraid that at any moment I'm doing to reach across the small, circular table and snatch it away from her.

CRASH

She's me, of course.  Well, me of five years ago.  From a different small minded community in a different state.  But her story is mine.  Fucked up parents, military style education.  Her own doubts swirling constantly in her head but with no proper outlet for them. 

Did she tell me all this?  No.  She's playing hard to crack.  But the person who "set us up" gave me some.  Just looking at her gave me the rest.  We have a look, we band of survivors.  It's part defiant, part haunted.  Plenty lost and confused, as well.

I don't even wonder why I'm here.  I know why.  I'm a success story.  I'm one who got out but made good.  Hell, I even came back, at least to some people's definitions.  And if someone who tries to help people thinks I can help too, it's my obligation to try. 

So here I am.

CRASH

Only one way to do this, I realize. Deep breath, jump, plunge.

"I was broken too," I say.  She looks up from her coffee.  ""I was broken and damaged and lost.  I hated.  I cursed God and I pissed on religion.  I did unimaginable things for a roof over my head.  Shit, I did unimaginable things for a lot less than that." 

She smiles.  She knows what I'm talking about.  She's here because she wants the same thing.  She's been there and done that.  She's rebelled.  Now she's alone.  But she's smart and savvy and knows this is the middle.  But there needs to be an end game.

I look at her as I tell my story.  And I see her looking at me.  Intent.  Soaking it up.  She stops me a few times to ask a question.  She's listening.  And she's hearing.   Or so I, in my hubris, like to think.

And then, just like that, it's her turn.

CRASH

It's like being hit full on by a tsunami.

It's my story, sure, but it's much worse.  There's sexual abuse.  There's emotional abuse.  There's physical abuse.  Some of it is probably not true (I suspect this girl hasn't told a whole truth in a very long time).  Some of it is.  It doesn't matter.  It's her story now. 

Memory, after all, is edited time, running in reverse.

Another latte (for me) and a diet coke (for her) later, she is done.  Tears dried, mask securely back in place.  We talk for another half an hour.  I try to give her some advice.

But the truth is, I have nothing for her.  As bad as I might have had it, she's much worse.  Her family has disowned her, she has no friends in the normal world.  Every single person in her life is from the shadow world.  All are takers, no givers there.  She has no money for good therapy, no education.  What am I supposed to say, "go ask my parents if they will put you up for two years while you turn your life around"?

CRASH

She thanks me for the drinks, picks up her battered bag and slips out the door.  Not before stealthily pocketing the tip I had left for the person who was going to clean up our mess.  I sigh, put a few more dollars on the table.  I sit for another five, clearing my head, and then I'm also out the door.

CRASH

Did I give her hope or did I obscenely show her a world she could never be a part of?  I don't know. I take out my cell and call the "shadchan", letting him know how it went.  He understands what I mean.  Exasperated.  Knowing there isn't much anyone can do for someone whose heart really isn't into it.  Or simply isn't strong enough yet. You can try and assist and advise but in the end....

My hands are shaking.  It's the latte, I tell myself.  But I know it isn't.  I'm shaking because I've just seen a ghost.  My ghost.  The me that I would otherwise have become.  Fucked up, stealing tips of cafe tables.  Lost. 

I take my cell out again, get a number from it's memory banks.  When I hear my dad's voice on the other end, I burst out crying, right there on the street. 

To his credit, he takes it all in stride.  "So how was your day? he asks in a sing-song voice.  And then, like a loon, I'm laughing.  I talk as I walk,  just about shit and nonsense.  He doesn't push.  Doesn't wonder why I'm thanking him for saving my life on this sticky May late afternoon.

Memory is time, edited, running in reverse.

But the key is the future.  Living in the past is like living in a badly cut movie.  There's nothing to be gained from looping it over and over.

CRASH

No, not crash. 

Ducking under the waves now.  Getting out to sea.  Going forward. 

No more being pushed back. 

Morning

Eyes open.  Looks at the alarm clock.  Through bleary, sleep heavy lids, she can see its not yet five.

Time to get up.

The streets, even in this busy City, are quiet at this hour.  She starts to run slowly at first, a light jog.  It's humid but chilly.  Soon she's gathered speed and moving at a steady pace through the quiet city streets. 

But it's never dead here.  Always some movement.  Some delivery or early riser or other runners.  Sleeplessness seems contagious.  That fills her with a sense of...something.  She isn't quite sure what.  Was that really the "in" crowd to which you want to belong?  The sleepless?  Insomniacs United.

Now there's a good sweat going.  Two miles?  Yea that sounds about right.  Two miles.  Two more to go.  She's feeling good.  Music in her ears, sky heavy with clouds.  She's moving to the rhythm of her own thoughts.

Her thoughts.  They go everywhere when she runs.  To her to-do list.  To work.  Flights of fancy.  Desire. 

Now she's done.  About forty five minutes.  Breathing hard now as she lightly jogs back to her building, toweling the sweat off as she smiles to the doorman.

Now she's in the shower.  Turning the hot water as cold as she can stand it, letting her core temperature come down some, feeling the sweat slowly stop its release from her skin. 

The shower.  Another place where her thoughts flow free.  Different types of thoughts than the ones she has when she runs.  She wonders, briefly, if he's up yet.  She's always up before him and has learned to be quiet in the mornings.  No need why he needs to suffer for her inability to sleep.

Now she's dressed in smart work attire.  She's on the train.  She's left earlier than him today because she's leaving work early.  Want to get almost a full day in.  So a hard kiss on the mouth and a "see you later".

Now she's at work.  Unable to start.  Wanting to  but unable to.  She scans the internet.  Finds a story about an ex-chasid who went OTD.  It all started with listening to the radio, he writes.  But did it really?  What really comes first, the under pinnings or the seduction?

Now she needs to write.  To release.  To leech out the depression she suddenly has with words.

Try poetry, someone once suggested.

But what is poetry, or any written form of expression?  When it's right, it's raw and unrelenting.  She is who she is.  Take her (like so many have) or leave her (like so many more).  You think she gives a fuck?

(Of course she does.  But secretly.  Her hearts been ripped apart too.  She's felt loss and betrayal and hurt and humiliation.  So she developed a shell.  Harder than some.  But not quite hard enough.) 

She smiles.  The office begins to fill up with people.  She notices that almost everyone walks in with coffee.  For some reason this fills her with satisfaction.  Time to work now. 

The day has begun.

The Wit and Wisdom of....Me

I have no idea what I am about to write.  I feel the need to post, but I've literally thought for 2 days and have come up with nothing worth mentioning.  So I'll go a little freestyle on your asses:

 - I have reluctantly watched a few episodes of the show Scandal.  And every time it gets more and more crazy, I say "damn, can this get any more crazy?" 

Think about it.  White House cover ups. Shady governmental agencies targeting enemies of the president before and after an election.  The white house using the Department of Justice to keep tabs on the press.

Wait a second, that's not TV, that's our current administration.

Welcome to Mr. Obama's second term, America!!

 - Holidays can be really stressful, even for me.  I'm working today (as you can see!) and I still have mucho cooking to do.  We are taking part in three shared meals with friends and eating one meal alone. I have graciously volunteered to make a few things and haven't started yet.  Bad times.  I have a lasagna to make, cookies to bake, a tuna to pan sear and a potato kugel to grate.  I have absolutely no idea how I'm getting this all done.

 - I was thinking about my recent tennis play.  How different tennis is with a permanent partner.  It's a totally different game.  I am enjoying every second of it.  Despite, perhaps, the lack of the variety of different partners, the addition of an emotional aspect is truly a game changer.

Now I cannot deny occasionally fantasizing about what it might be like to play with a Federer or a McEnroe, a steady tennis partner has been a pretty damn good thing.

 - I was also thinking about relationships with parents recently.  I called my mom on Sunday, mother's day, but we didn't go visit.  My choice.  We went, of course, to my in laws for brunch. David suggested we go to my parents for dinner (he being a bigger person than I).  I declined. 

I'm not there yet.  Maybe I won't ever be.  It might be water under the bridge, but it's a lot of freaking water - a flood even.  I have worked hard on forgiveness, but there's a far cry between forgiveness and friendship.

 - Congratulations to the New York Rangers who beat the Washington Capitals last night.  What it means to you?  Nothing.  What it means to me?  At least four more games of having to live and breath hockey.  Between this and the Knicks basketball stuff, it doesn't leave many free nights for David. Poor bastard!

 - Anyway, that's what I have to say.  Happy Holiday to you who celebrate.  Good luck to anyone who stays up all night (David doesn't - I'm sure you were all wondering).

Post Script

Breaking News on Foxnews.com

BOSTON BOMBER TAMERLAN TSARNAEV BURIED AT UNDISCLOSED SITE, POLICE SAY

Why We Can't Put This Fucker In The Ground

Colloqually Speaking wrote this piece explaining why the Boston Bomber should be put in the ground.  why some cemetery should take him in.  The argument, quite simply, is that Judeo-Christian ethics demand for it.  No matter how evil you are, your bones deserve a place to rest.

I spent a whole shower trying to come up with reasons why I disagree.  Real life examples. 

I couldn't.

But I can explain why Americans feel differently than their Israeli counterparts.

It's about strife.  Struggle.  Hardship.  History.

Israel's history is full of it.  Prior to having its own home, Jews suffered all over the world.  In Europe, the Holocaust.  rising form it's ashes...Israel.  Bloody Independence.  '48.  '67.  '73.

Israel's history is saturated in violence.  Wars, Intifada.  Bombs.  Buses.  Restaurants.  Hotels on Passover.  Not that Israeli's are numb to it - no one can ever be - but there is a certain level of acceptance that violence exists.  We deal with it, we bury our dead (and the homicide bomber) and we move on.

Americans...not so much.

Our history is awash in victory.  The bloodier battles have all taken place on distant shores - Normandy, Germany.  We don't have the same history of hatred murder here. 

America doesn't have the same history of violence.  We have serial killers and the occasional sniper.  We have lunatics and crazies of all kinds.  But the Jihad has always kept out of our boundaries. 

except, of course, 9-11.

Even 9-11, though.  The killers' bodies were burned up in the wreckage of their own destruction.  There were no bodies to bury.

So here we are.  With a murder's body.  A murderer who heartlessly placed a knapsack full of explosives next to a child.  Who died.  And we cannot rationally put that man in the ground.

I understand the anger.  I hear the other side.  I have no idea what the right answer is. 

But that's why his cold dead body lies unburied.

Whirlwind

What a week.

I spent a week in and around the Washington, DC area for work last week (well, almost a whole week - Monday-Thursday).  I viewed a lot of real estate, sat in on a few meetings and generally spent much time travelling around.

It also marked the first time David and i were apart since we were married.

For the most part, I think I help up pretty well.  Of course, I barely slept (no surprises there), but I managed to not go insane and I kept out of trouble. 

Go me.

How did David fare, you may wonder?

Actual phone conversation:

Me:  "So how has it been without me?  I've pretty much been sitting in this hotel room every night staring at the walls."

Him:  "Well, I've been working, of course.  Tonight I'm going over to _____ to watch the Ranger game.  Went to dinner with ___ and ____.  Last night iIwas at the Garden at the Knick game. Blah Blah Blah....etc. etc."

Me:  "Asshole."

*********


I often wonder about me.  My way of thinking.  It's not what you would call mainstream on certain...issues.  I wonder if i can make it as a "normal" married woman.  Trying to fit into ideals that, my whole life, were completely foreign to me.  Not that it's a defense, but I really don't hold from certain traditional values about tennis and things related thereto.

I often wonder if i can be faithful. 

There I said it.  Not because HE is lacking in any way.  Honestly, it's nothing to do with him.  And everything to do with me.  My way of thinking, my background.  My messed up head.  I wonder if I was even being fair when i said yes - was I dooming him to a life of misery riding the Cym Train?

Whirlwind. 

Not the traveling or the hotel rooms or the relentless looking at building after building.  It's me.  My head.  My turmoil - exacerbated by being apart from him. 

Is it a sure thing that I will fail? 

No - not by a long shot. 

I have set my boundaries - the lines I never plan on crossing - and I remain steadfast in my desire to stick with them.  (Would you agree with where my boundaries lay?  Maybe not-  probably not. But I do believe the lines are different for all of us.  Maybe wishful thinking, but MY thinking nonetheless.)  I do not want to fail.  I hope to remain strong.  I surround myself with him and my new friends and work and all the great things in my life.

But the whirlwind still remains in the background.

********

One more note of interest.  I spoke to Tova the other night when I was away.  It was...ok.  Ok as in not great.  But not terrible either.  We haven't spoken again since but it was a start.  We shall see.  I am still trying to process how I feel about it.

So that's quite a bit of stuff for one week eh?

In other words....

A whirlwind.

Frienemies - A Love Story

Friend?

Enemy?

Who decides?  Mutual?  One way?

One day you are bopping along, not a care in the whole wide world.  The next day you are a villain.  What did you do, you monster?

Victim of caring too much? 

"Victim of love I see your broken heart."

Victim.  You don't see yourself that way.  But you are.  Victim of yourself.  Of your circumstances.  Always a victim never the bride.

Why do I care?  I don't.  I stopped caring.  I tried.  I really did.   I wanted to help.  I really did.

But apparently I'm a monster.  I'm manipulative and evil.  I twist and turn brains.

Is this really about me, though?  Really?  Or was I just the thing to strike out at.  The punching bag of the moment. 

You've moved on.  That's totally great.  The question with you though is not from what, but to what?

"Move along..... there's nothing left to see.  Just a body...floating down a stream."

Far from perfect.  I agree.  Flawed to a crisp.  But evil?  That's a new one.  Or a new old one.

Perhaps that's the difference.  I see my flaws.  I admit them.  I tell the world what they are.  We certainly don't need to invent new ones.  There's plenty.

You - you were born flawless.  You are the perfectly rated gem.  Perfection.  Any thing about you which could be conceived negatively - that's my someone else's fault.  But you?  Perfection personified.

Friend?

Enemy?

Who decides?  You decided.  and quite honestly, I'm thrilled.  You showed a spine.  For perhaps the first time ever.  Tell me was it hard to not be so passive aggressive?  I'll bet it was.

Anyway.  This wasn't cathartic.  Mostly because I didn't really give to shits to begin with.  I tried.  I wanted to do good. 

Evil?  Manipulative?  Mind control?  I guess i failed.

 #epicfail.