On The State of Pasta in Atlanta

AWP is the kind of thing people* go to for different reasons. There are panels on a variety of (mostly) boring and pedantic topics. There are readings, some of which have slayed me, some of which have left me yawning. There is the Book Fair, an immense gathering of all the best literary publications in the country, and you can buy books and subscriptions at discount rates, as well as hip ass t-shirts** and they hand out tons of free crap like coffee mugs with quotes and temporary tattoos of various magazine logos. And there's the networking and the drinking nights, and all the camaraderie and the watching of poets dancing to Vanilla Ice***. But this year, one of the reasons I came was to meet the Nefarious But Adorable Poet.

My closest friends knew about this, knew that he and I have been carrying on something approaching a relationship, via the Internet, for eight months now. It's been intense and sometimes tough, sometimes a little frightening. It's also been wonderful, and I consider NBAP a close friend, someone who has bailed me out of a few tough jams, someone I can trust with lots of things, even with reading my work in progress. And I think I've been the same for him.

At the same time, there was something amiss, some small little glitch, that I felt for months. Part of it was, I'm sure, the classic case of the Push/Pull, the thing boys do that makes us girls crazy. Pull us close, push us away, pull us close, push us away. I've dated boys who've given me whiplash with their version, and NBAP was never that bad. No, it was something else, something I could sense but could never quite figure out. It was there in the high level of emotional intimacy we had coupled with his inability to classify the relationship as romantic in almost any sense****. That was a clue to me, something I should have perhaps paid closer attention to.

Twenty minutes ago, Housekeeping came into my hotel room, and the Cuban woman asked in her Cubaned English if she could clean. I agreed, put on my ear buds*****, and within five minutes of beginning this piece, I started crying. Like a moron, people. A moron with a runny nose and a tear-streaked face. So the lovely Cuban woman kept approaching me with her questions. "Clean towels?" she asked, with the gentlest eyes. Then, "Will it be acceptable to vacuum?" She's vacuuming now.

I'm telling you, fan base, it's like I'm living my entire life in a romantic comedy of not my own choosing. Because, as Fort Awesome would say, these things? Things like getting dumped in the presence of balloon-wielding midgets? Being asked about clean towels while feeling heart sore? These things only happen to me, and I'm starting to believe her.

When I was a kid, my parents took off a few times. It was never longer than a week, but I never knew where they were, and I'd spin stories for my little brothers, then spend every night of my parents' absence wandering the house, looking for clues, anything to tell me what was happening, what I could expect. My brothers and I were hungry, no food really in the house, and this has shaped me as well, that gnawing in the middle of the night, hollow-bellied and sick with hunger, the faux-Victorian street lamps of our pretty little suburb throwing light against my closet, doors off because none of us kids were big enough, strong enough, to put them back on. There were other failures: power cut off, ripped clothes, holed-shoes. But this is what I return to, those few abandonments, the belief that any moment, the rug will be pulled out from under me by someone who I should trust.

When I'm honest with myself, I know that the other reason I looked through the house was because I thought I could learn how to predict when my parents would abandon us. I wanted that level of power and control. It was an easier thing to believe than to think I had no control, no foreknowledge, at all.

It's what I'm doing here, even now in this entry, and what I've always done with this boy to some small extent, though I tried not to. I've looked for the clues, worrying I knew what was coming, thinking how much easier it would all be if I could predict what would happen with a relative level of certainty.

He was doing his own version of this too. He has convinced himself that it would be better, though he's attracted to me and thinks I'm funny and smart and all the right things, that starting anything with me will only end in pain. A familiar story, isn't it? One I realized, as soon as it came out of his mouth, that it was the story, the failure, I most worried about.

Friend One says that we're most attracted to a certain kind of man, and he's attracted to us, and that maybe we play out these little scenarios again and again and again, only changing the players. And there is some truth to that, though I think, I have to believe, that you learn, you figure out how to work with the type you're attracted to, how to open up, learn to love and accept love. The hard, cold truth is that I would have done all of this even knowing what I know now. Because I have a little more hope in people, in myself, even in this poet, that we can best our fears, that sometimes we can let other people make us better than ourselves for small moments. It's what I think everything boils down to. And I know he's probably been looking all the while for clues, trying to figure out how this will end, and I know, despite feeling angry and hurt, that he's doing his best, just as I am.

Though I think we both sometimes just see what we're most afraid of.

Right now I'm sad and embarrassed, a terrible state to be in, though another poet (gah, always with the poets) has expressed a high level of interest in me. He's the kind of hot women go crazy over and it's flattering and lovely to be appreciated and treated warmly. But I already miss the Nefarious But Adorable Poet, don't know what to do about any of it but keep writing this, keep smiling, apply my lip gloss and flip my pretty hair, and flirt with the help, as Friend One would say. I don't even know if we're still friends, don't know if it's possible to move backwards in that way. And I'm, like the girl who sat in her parents' room, rummaging through drawers of old clothing, I'm trying to figure it all out, right now, despite the fact I know better, and I know it won't help.

This is the oldest story in my book, the one I could tell in my sleep, the narrative all my fictions, true and untrue, come from.

*tm

*If I were being kind, I'd say "writers" instead of "people," but I'm feeling catty, so no. I won't deem them all writers. Not today, my friends.

**Well, they're really only hip if you're a writer. Which is, to say, not hip at all.

***Yes. This was last night, Friday night. No, I am not kidding. I want to bring a video camera next year and videotape them, then upload the offending material onto YouTube. Title? "Poets Dancing Badly."

****I know, I know. Stoic Writer says that doing the DTR (Define The Relationship) talk gives him hives, and I know most guys hate it. But at some point it has to come, or you're building on an unstable foundation people! I'm serious here!

*****While writing this, I decided to make a special playlist. Content?

The Postal Service's "Against All Odds"
Neko Case's Outro With Bees," "I Wish I Was The Moon," and "Set Out Running"
Beck's "Lost Cause"
Patty Griffin's "Rain"
and Gillian Welch's "Black Star."

Yes, this is evidence of masochism, I'm certain.

Comments

[Tragically Hip Single Mother]

Oh, sweetie.

[Kari]

Fucktonic.

[nk]

Hey TM,
I'm the person who talked with you at the Starbucks before going to the museum. I can't figure out how to get in touch with you but shoot me an email if you want.

[Wacky Mommy]

Lucinda Williams -- "Jackson."

Keep hope alive.

[Terrible Mother]

Goddamnit, W, that song is kicking my ass.

Motherfuck.

[Marilyn]

Had to backtrack to here to understand the later post. So sorry. After reading here for years, I don't understand why an amazing woman like you isn't in a divine relationship with just the right guy...and being paid oodles of dough for your writing so you don't have to have a day job. I know I don't comment as often as I 'should,' but I do read...and hold you in the highest regard.