Rainy Night

The rain continues to pour, noisy in the streets. It lulls the neighborhood to sleep with only the faint anxiety of flooded basements and the morning commute.

The air has changed here. Along with summer's persistent humidity has come my realization that it's time to stop this push-pull with Erika. That it's not realistic or practical or even likely that we will be able to navigate our romance through this time and distance.

Yesterday I asked that she and I no longer be in contact. As full of hope as I was when I learned of her impending divorce from Seth, my hope has dissolved into a lingering discomfort, a realization that of the number of obstacles preventing she and I from being together, her being married was but one.

Now begin the painful reminders of the spaces where I am no longer allowed. She tragically, systematically deletes her presence from this blog and perhaps symbolically, from my life in Philadelphia, hopefully to live hers more fully in Portland. Now begins the wondering if this is the right path... the kind one? the honest one?

Philadelphia, for me, has become home. I am comforted by familiar landmarks, street corners, restaurants. For a long time I allowed each little place to have its sacredness as associated with a certain individual. Out of respect, I wouldn't overlap where I took these women who have been my lovers while I've lived here. Pine Street Pizza, Avenue B, The Kimmel Center, and The Academy of Music belonged to Greta. Giovanni's Room, the green line trolley, Pumpkin, and Bike Church were Zach's. And Erika had Lolita, Capogiro, Whole Foods, Colonial Pizza, Fu Wah, and Reading Terminal Market early on Friday mornings.

I'm reaching a point now where so many spaces are coded to be associated with a certain person and a specific memory- coffee one morning with Jess at Petit 4 Pastry Studio, mojito happy hour with Robin at Cafe Habana, that CVS on Walnut where we bought Christmas lights while I waited in the car so nobody would steal our tree, the house on Antique Row where Kate and I bought our vacuum on the day in August when we became friends- that the city now appears in layers and layers of my history. The cacophony of meaning and memory and love and joy and pain and forgiveness is all around all the time as I walk or bike these rainy streets.

On the days when it is too wet to walk or to bike I resign myself to taking the Broad Street Line where I sit and think about my early morning rides southbound from West Philly when Erika and I would part ways- she heading to the market to begin her day, and me heading home to bed for a few more hours. I think of my first ride on that subway, to meet Zach for a movie at Arts Bank at the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. I recall the air conditioned theater exiting into the muggy night, to catch the train home together to 411. Then I think of Kelly and I think of the great, great films that this summer's festival will bring, and I think of Zach and Erika in far away Portland. So absent. And even though they have removed their physical presences from this gritty city, they remain in these moments of my own remembrance.

I would like to think that even though their landscape may now look different- more green space, cleaner public transit, and a different host of little bars, cafes, and theaters- that Philadelphia, for what it's worth- has made an impression as well. Or at least that I have, anyway.

scenes from my days

After a beautiful meal at Lolita on a rainy evening with Anne.

Playing the 'Making the Bed Game'.

The Cat. The Laundry.

A spring salad of beets and apples and hyssop.

At Capogiro. Hazlenut and milk chocolate. Fior de latte and pistachio.

High Point

Another long, long day at the market. I'm bracing myself for the two sixteen-hour days that are my Friday and Saturday. The idea of them make today's ten hour one seem like cake.

My low point of the day happened on my way home. I was tired, it's unseasonably hot and muggy and the asphalt of South Philly just seems to magnify it. I was about to cross washington ave on my bike, riding along 12th street, when something orange flew in front of my face. Before I had time to register what it was another presumably orange something smacked into the right side of my neck. Stinging, and surprised I regained my balance on my bike and I kept riding. It took me a moment to register what had happened. Hearing the yells of the kids on the street I realized that they had just thrown water balloons at me. As if I were some truck driver to annoy with a sudden splatter of water. I mean how stupid do you have to be? They could have knocked me off my bike, into traffic....The balloon could have exploded and soaked my bag containing my computer....
I could have stopped to yell at them and work out some of the frustration of an already too long day without enough time to feel human or enough of a staff to feel capable....
But I didn't. I just headed homeward feeling defeated.

The high point of my day happened a few moments ago when waking from a little nap I checked my e-mail to find a forward from my mom. Louise wrote:

A queer super heroine - yippee!
CNN.com - New Batwoman is a lesbian - Jun 1, 2006


I'm delighted, first of all, that batwoman is queer- I mean, was there really any doubt? And secondly, that my mom is excited enough about it to pass it on to me. Way to go mom. You're awesome.

Home

I'm sitting in my parent's house in the bedroom that was mine from the time I was ten until I was thirteen years old. It's a small room, now painted a warm peach. There is a little hardwood desk and a big dresser and a white radiator and white wooden blinds over the windows. The bed is covered in soft white sheets and blue blankets and a quilt. My sister's pottery surrounds me and my grandmother Barbara's bedroom chair sits in the corner. Last night when I got home from the Peace Corps reunion memorial day barbecue, I lay on this bed and stared out the windows into the summer evening light and so many green trees. I fell asleep at eight and slept soundly until four when I woke after having a dream about a vintage stand mixer and rowing a double inside and seeing alligators through clear, green water.

I have been working too hard. And I haven't been sleeping enough.

Yesterday, after a regular Saturday double between the Farmstand and the restaurant, I woke early and drove to DC where I met Ann, my farmstand boss and several of our workers, Nicky, Lori, Karl. We had a tour of the Dupont Circle Farmer's Market where Nicky and I shared a quart of chocolate milk and we tried apples and cheese curds. We bought preserves, pasta, bread, pastries, beef jerky, greens, meat, and yogurt. We had lovely goat cheese form the sweet Firefly Farm in Maryland and we tasted spicy mustard greens, dense purslane, and velvety butter lettuces. The market was full of people pushing strollers and buying plants and flowers. It was such a relief to be out in the sunshine, for once not behind one of the tables ringing up sales and offering samples and explanations.

My farmstand was crazy this weekend....While I love my volunteers, having them as a staff can be difficult because of their inexperience and sometimes their lack of self motivation. When the market gets busy I find myself just scrambling to keep up...paired with the lack of sleep I can't imagine that I'm a very pleasant person to work with....I just don't know what needs to give...

As Sunday in DC wore on Mom and Dad headed home with their purchases and the Farmstand staff convened at Teaism for lunch. We were lucky to grab a table upstairs where could sit and talk about our market and our project to expand and ideas we would like to implement. It was so nice to just sit and swap ideas and share food with my coworkers. Everyone had tried something a little different so there was tuna tataki, tofu and sweet potatoes , greens with a sesame dressing, and gingery cucumber salad to share. We had strawberries and salted oat cookies and apricot pastries from the market.

It felt so productive for me to be out of my routine for a moment. I'm so grateful for this time at home. It inspires me to write an ode to the DC Metro and enjoy the birds and frogs outside my window that much more.

Pho

Oh man. Today I am out of sorts. I just can't find my stride.

I woke up early only to fall back asleep- granted, the little cat crawling under the covers to nap between my feet was quite an incentive. And then I woke up at 11:30 and scrambled to get ready for yoga, but I got to the studio three minutes late. My body just feels tired, out of synch.

I decided that I needed real nourishment if I was to continue with my day so I headed to Chinatown where I settled into a table at Pho Cali for a gigantic bowl of pho- pronounced 'fuh' or 'fah'- Vietnamese noodle soup. Though there were options for the tripe, tendon and otherwise adventurous meat-eater, I settled on a bowl with flank steak.

It arrived moments later, enormous and steaming. There were rice noodles, slivers of steak, translucent half-moons of onion, bright rounds of scallion, and yellow pearls of fat skimming along the surface of the fragrant beef broth. The best part about pho is garnishing your soup with an array of condiments. I personalized mine with sriracha, slices of jalapeño, and bean sprouts for texture. I tore felty green leaves of purple basil into my bowl, breathing in the summery, soapy fragrance.
I ate with chopsticks in my right hand and a spoon in my left, alternating between mouthfuls of spicy broth and milky, yielding rice noodles with folded steak. I took sips of icy limeade to cool my mouth.

Afterwards, stepping out into the sunshine, I felt better.

Cornerstones

I'm rereading my last entry and feeling....not that any of it is any less the truth...but more pragmatic overall. I don't really believe that Erika is coming back. Not to me anyway. I don't believe that she knows how to take a risk like that. But who does, I suppose? The only thing to which I can speak with any authority is my complete conviction that I'm totally great. And whoever lands me is a lucky son-of-a-bitch.

Kate and I had a really excellent conversation over wine and chocolate last night about partnering with people. Kate's romantic strategy is basically the opposite of mine, though she has a few good years on me to have grown out of the childish idealism about conducting relationships. Though I think that we're ultimately looking for similar kinds of partnerships, we have different patterns and habits when it comes to dating or building them.

We spoke about the annoying compromise that arises when people's habits collide, when we, the morning people, are ready to get up and our respective others would rather us stay in bed. Not that there's anything wrong with that...but sometimes getting up and wandering around the kitchen, picking things up and putting them down, looking outside, or reading something is really a physical need...I know that personally, I can return to bed after doing these very things...but I can't stay in bed past 9 if I haven't done them.
This led to a conversation about attentiveness....whether it be to one's need to get up in the morning, or a need to sleep, or eat, or have some time alone, or vent about work. I'm beginning to believe that a mutual attentiveness is a cornerstone of any relationship, be it romantic, friendly, or work related. It stems from a mutual care, and beyond that, interest.

What else? We talked about the requisite unconditional support when one is feeling vulnerable. Even if it's about something ridiculous or inconsequential.

And all of this leads me to realize that I don't really know how to have casual relationships with people, because if I'm interested in someone, if I care about someone, then I'm doing as best as I know how to be attentive and responsive and supportive. Which aren't really qualities of casual relationships, but rather, serious ones conducted over the long term.

So there I am.
Does anybody have any advice?

Memorial

Yesterday was May 16th. It has been two months since Erika moved away from Philadelphia to seek...something in Portland. Missing her has become an automatic for me. I can't shake the image of her from my mind. In yoga, when I am trying to clear my head of the mundane, "God, I really need to do laundry...pay my phone bill...I wonder when those library books are due...?" I find that my alternative, the one to whom I continually return, is always this captivating blonde. I don't know whether it is her that I'm in love with or the idea of her, them memory of who she was in my life.

She has missed so much already...Spring is beginning its rush into summer...It's strange for me to look around the backyard and realize that she's never seen any of it...my baby vegetables and herbs, so full of potential for warm weather meals. The little rose that I gave her has new branches and leaves, it looks so different. My trusting Fitz lolling on the concrete, scratching his back. The the white irises blooming and the impatients and the afternoon light on the bricks...All things that I would have liked to share with her...

I have no idea what routine is hers now. I have no idea whether or not she misses me this way...of if her life with Seth has overgrown a periphery that I once occupied. I don't know what her days look like anymore, if she is doing yoga or baking goodnight cookies or making new friends in a poly community out West.

I had thought that this hurt would have lessened in the two months...but here it is, right here under the surface of everything, just as big and unwieldy as ever. I have been trying to put it down, to breathe it away, to fade it from my mind, to forgive and understand how anything could be worth the churning heartache. I would have thought that people would be able to see it on me. That it would be written in my face and on my clothing somewhere and that I could walk into a room and someone holding a cocktail would turn to someone else and say,'The poor girl...someone must have left her..."

But apparently it is only this obvious to me.

I'm running out of ideas for how to help myself peacefully resign this relationship to memory, I think it's because even as I go through all of it I am hanging onto some hope. I've started doing this really self-destructive thing....When I'm in the yoga studio and I hear footsteps coming up the stairs I imagine what I would do in that instant if I turned around and saw that it was her. I do it at the Farmstand when my back is to the market for a moment, I imagine her standing there, grinning goofily, when I turn around. What would I do if she suddenly arrived at my doorstep? If I came home one night to find her in my bed?

The answer is always the same: I would pause, taken aback by surprise and shock, and then I would run to her and kiss her enough to forgive everything, these months without her would seem trivial and we would be able, in that moment, to ignore all of the big questions that remain. Those big questions that tore us down to begin with.

Not that I ever expect for this to happen. I mean, how would she even get into the house to be in my bed at all...?

I suppose what I mean to say is that there's this vestige of my heart that is hers: the idea of her, the memory of her, what she was, and what she could ever be in my life. And I don't know how long it will be this way. I don't look forward to a day when I can say with conviction that I don't love her anymore...and I don't look forward to the day when it will seem silly to have fallen for someone who is married at all...What I look forward to, I suppose, is a day when the frantic heartache subsides...when I don't feel the need to run from it...and when, at that point I can stop looking for my girl in every tall blonde who passes me on the street.