I've started reading physics texts again. I have dozens of them on the shelves - and a dozen years of study under my belt.
I don't expect to make a great contribution in the field. I don't know that I ever believed myself capable. But to read the theory, and to work through the math - it is so pleasing. It is a little like listening to a symphony by Mozart: something I can thoroughly enjoy without being able to create a masterpiece myself. There is a part of me that wishes to lose myself in it
I read out loud from a cosmology book to Eve as she packed her things last night - the particle soup and the fireball of the early universe. Eve is on her way to Africa today. I took her to the airport and then raced home for a couple of teleconferences. I spent the rest of the day answering e-mails and working on proposals. I took Eddy, the dog in the leasing office, for a jog around the block, and I went to the gym.
I met Joy for dinner tonight. Sushi. She brought me my Christmas present: homemade scrubs and creams, and a gift certificate for the Korean day spa we used to frequent when I lived in DC years ago. We talked about the experience of building a business, and about the philosophy of spirituality.
It was a cold night as I walked back from the train station.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
The Colonels
We sat in the General's office around a polished conference table.
They were all in uniform: the starched blue and white.
There were six Colonels. All men. All white. Crevasses on their faces: the sediment and cracks of rank.
I sat at the head of the table, in a skin-tight black dress and bright yellow cardigan. I wore lipstick. I forgot these things when the meeting began. I have a unique ability to forget myself when I talk about the work I'm doing; the projects I care about. This is the saving grace for a personality that likes to urge and question and deplores the spotlight.
They had my business card and presentation.
Dan used to call me a "true believer", a derogatory or affectionate term but I hated the implication: that I was driven by emotion, not reason.
But I do believe in what I'm doing, so perhaps he wasn't far wrong.
I spoke fervently. I fielded their questions.
They nodded when I noted that "capability" was more than technical aptitude.
They were concerned about whether Foreign Military Sales satisfied real-world requirements.
They expressed concern about those instances where partner objectives did not appear to align with our own.
They asked about partner transparency - reluctance in disclosing true objectives or unwillingness to participate in an "assessment" of true capability.
There was a concern about partners with deep pockets and a willingness to purchase items - but who lacked the ability or willingness to use the items appropriately or to greatest effect.
There was a question about "cultural differences" regarding concepts such as maintenance and drill schedules.
They wondered whether the folks in policy should hear about this.
They let me stay longer than planned. We shook hands. They talked among themselves. And the Colonel who had invited me walked me back to the entrance.
They were all in uniform: the starched blue and white.
There were six Colonels. All men. All white. Crevasses on their faces: the sediment and cracks of rank.
I sat at the head of the table, in a skin-tight black dress and bright yellow cardigan. I wore lipstick. I forgot these things when the meeting began. I have a unique ability to forget myself when I talk about the work I'm doing; the projects I care about. This is the saving grace for a personality that likes to urge and question and deplores the spotlight.
They had my business card and presentation.
Dan used to call me a "true believer", a derogatory or affectionate term but I hated the implication: that I was driven by emotion, not reason.
But I do believe in what I'm doing, so perhaps he wasn't far wrong.
I spoke fervently. I fielded their questions.
They nodded when I noted that "capability" was more than technical aptitude.
They were concerned about whether Foreign Military Sales satisfied real-world requirements.
They expressed concern about those instances where partner objectives did not appear to align with our own.
They asked about partner transparency - reluctance in disclosing true objectives or unwillingness to participate in an "assessment" of true capability.
There was a concern about partners with deep pockets and a willingness to purchase items - but who lacked the ability or willingness to use the items appropriately or to greatest effect.
There was a question about "cultural differences" regarding concepts such as maintenance and drill schedules.
They wondered whether the folks in policy should hear about this.
They let me stay longer than planned. We shook hands. They talked among themselves. And the Colonel who had invited me walked me back to the entrance.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Sunday Brunch
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I walked to Old Town and had brunch with a man named Scott. We meandered to the Torpedo Factory and looked at art. He held my hand. We strolled along the Potomac and looked at the ice. He kissed me. And then he threw snowballs at me.
I don't know much about Scott. He might be a decent fellow. He might be a complete douche.
When I first met him, I thought, "his eyes are too close together". Today, after he's made me laugh quite a lot, I thought, "he looks like Andy Samberg from SNL".
He says he's single. No kids. I'll reserve judgment until I can fact-check these things.
I can usually sniff out the married ones. They're too confident in the way they move on you. They don't have the uncertainty that goes with wondering and hoping that you might have a real connection with someone. They give away compliments too readily. They're too physical. They aren't worried about establishing a power dynamic where they've surrendered too much of their independence. They're too ready with your coat or the door. They don't have much to lose if you say "no". They dodge and weave when you ask about their home lives.
Not a lot of faith in men these days.
He's in the army. Don't know why I tend to have the most interest in the military types. Maybe I understand them the best. Maybe I believe they will understand me the best. I don't have to explain what it means to be doing things that are "operational" or to explain why it matters so much to me that I get off my couch and live for weeks or months at a time on a base or at sea. Why I want to be hiking Mount Cameroon with the BIR or climbing ladders on a ship instead of figuring out how to make swan figurines from apples. Maybe it's delusional to believe that any man can understand what makes me tick.
I am fortunate to have friends who understand my ticking. They watched me walk into hell for Sjors and then witnessed as he betrayed me. They each have their opinion of MIVD and Sjors. Eve has seen my grief over the years. And now, she sits with me when the ghosts haunt me, and tries to remind me that this hell will not be forever. And Marie calls and texts me when she senses that peculiar darkness that threatens to settle. Corinne hears it in my voice over the phone and advises more time on the bicycle and in the sunshine.
Tonight, after listening to my description of Brunch, Eve opened the laptop. "Scott, eh? What's his last name? Where is he from? Let's see if his story checks out."
God help you, sir, if you are a complete douche.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Cold and bright
I spent the morning working on a proposal. I have written and submitted a total of seven proposals since November. Three were bids for existing requirements. Four were entirely of my own invention. Heavily researched and thought-out. Each proposal is 25 pages or so. Single spaced. I've had many meetings with the potential sponsors. International phone calls. In this time frame, I've also fought false accusations from my former company, completed registration for the business, and written and submitted two academic papers.
Two proposals have been actively shot-down by B, my previous boss. In the first instance, B verbally implied that I had been guilty of wrongdoing (referring to our Dutch friend's slander). The client didn't believe him, but he was made to understand that work with me would be perceived as "undesirable". So he pulled out. In the second instance, B represented that the Command had a strong preference that the client's work exclude any contractors. Any particular reason or history of this? Nope. Just being a bastard.
I will keep trying as long as I can make the money in the bank-account stretch. But then I will have to look for another job. Something that lets me live on more than my ideals and vision. I don't think I'll stay in the U.S. if this happens. I'll sell my shit or put it in storage. I'll go back to Africa.
Eve and I walked into the frigid winter to get some PT in at the gym. then I returned, showered, and took the train to Chinatown where I met R for sushi. R is one of those perfectly acceptable men I've attempted to date and for whom I feel nothing.
Lee called me this afternoon and we spoke for a few minutes. I don't recognize her. God, I wish I did. She spoke in second-hand euphemisms from every treatment facility she's ever been in. I remembered a decade ago when I used to drive my shitty little Mazda Miata with the busted-up hood into the industrial North-West corner of the Salt Lake Valley. She and Jane were at a youth treatment facility there. I would check Lee out for a drive. We would listen to the radio. I would crank it up loud and the hot Utah sun would beat down on us. I would buy us sodas at a gas station. And then I would drive her back. She was only fourteen then. And so fraught with pain and confusion. I ached to reach into my soul and give her some piece that would patch hers.
Today, I don't recognize this person. And there is not much of a soul here left to give her.
I listened as Lee rummaged around in this borrowed bag of jargon and tried to pass off the half-baked thoughts as her own, offering them to me one at a time, testing to see if anything met with my approval.
"I have to spend some time working on me...I realize that I have to invest in the relationships that I've broken...it was really confronting to me to hear how much I need to build up trust..."
At least she's safe. She showed up at the treatment facility and she's safe.
Every day I find myself asking whether there has been any value in my sticking around these last few years. Is this a life worth living? The answer is clear. It has been clear for a long time. I died on August 16, 2011 when I said goodbye. And I didn't have the good sense to stop breathing.
Two proposals have been actively shot-down by B, my previous boss. In the first instance, B verbally implied that I had been guilty of wrongdoing (referring to our Dutch friend's slander). The client didn't believe him, but he was made to understand that work with me would be perceived as "undesirable". So he pulled out. In the second instance, B represented that the Command had a strong preference that the client's work exclude any contractors. Any particular reason or history of this? Nope. Just being a bastard.
I will keep trying as long as I can make the money in the bank-account stretch. But then I will have to look for another job. Something that lets me live on more than my ideals and vision. I don't think I'll stay in the U.S. if this happens. I'll sell my shit or put it in storage. I'll go back to Africa.
Eve and I walked into the frigid winter to get some PT in at the gym. then I returned, showered, and took the train to Chinatown where I met R for sushi. R is one of those perfectly acceptable men I've attempted to date and for whom I feel nothing.
Lee called me this afternoon and we spoke for a few minutes. I don't recognize her. God, I wish I did. She spoke in second-hand euphemisms from every treatment facility she's ever been in. I remembered a decade ago when I used to drive my shitty little Mazda Miata with the busted-up hood into the industrial North-West corner of the Salt Lake Valley. She and Jane were at a youth treatment facility there. I would check Lee out for a drive. We would listen to the radio. I would crank it up loud and the hot Utah sun would beat down on us. I would buy us sodas at a gas station. And then I would drive her back. She was only fourteen then. And so fraught with pain and confusion. I ached to reach into my soul and give her some piece that would patch hers.
Today, I don't recognize this person. And there is not much of a soul here left to give her.
I listened as Lee rummaged around in this borrowed bag of jargon and tried to pass off the half-baked thoughts as her own, offering them to me one at a time, testing to see if anything met with my approval.
"I have to spend some time working on me...I realize that I have to invest in the relationships that I've broken...it was really confronting to me to hear how much I need to build up trust..."
At least she's safe. She showed up at the treatment facility and she's safe.
Every day I find myself asking whether there has been any value in my sticking around these last few years. Is this a life worth living? The answer is clear. It has been clear for a long time. I died on August 16, 2011 when I said goodbye. And I didn't have the good sense to stop breathing.
Friday, January 17, 2014
The past eight months
Three years, three months since I first saw you.
Two years, five months since I first said goodbye and walked away so you could live your life.
One year, eight months ago, I tried to help you get out of your organization. And two months later, you turned on me.
If you'd decided to fight for us three years ago, the pain of those changes would be over by now. Your life would look so much different than it is today and you would be settling into a new pattern with new ideas and new energy, with someone who loved you.
Eight months have passed since our last meeting.
What has your life been like these past eight months?
Are you still trapped? What books are you reading? Do you run? Do you have moments of peace? Have you shut off entirely?
When I saw you in Amsterdam Centraal last May, I hardly recognized you. You were so bleak and ugly. Rage and darkness seethed from you like snakes.You loved me once. How does love turn itself into that? Not by any calculus I know.
Two weeks later, you lied about me - or you signed off on the lie that they made, and you condemned me. In the end, it doesn't matter who invented it. You agreed to it. I still don't understand why. How could you do that?
I remember once, after I'd managed to do particularly good work at a conference in Tanzania in the fall of 2011, Eve followed me back to my hotel room so I could change and we could go to the market. As I dressed, I started to tremble and I couldn't stop. The tears came. I had lost you and the pain overtook me. I was so angry with myself that this sorrow was bigger than I was.
"It isn't getting any better," I told Eve. "I don't know what to do. Maybe this has turned into depression. It is so dark and I hurt so much."
Eve knew it was bad, but she did her best to make a path away from catastrophe. She said, "It isn't depression. It's grief. It hasn't gone away because there is so much of it. You don't know what the quantity of grief is. The volume may be so big that it takes longer to come out."
For me, it still is there. This love and deep grief for you. For me, they are two sides of the same coin. The magnitude of the grief is equal to the magnitude of the love. I must have loved you very much.
Two years, five months since I first said goodbye and walked away so you could live your life.
One year, eight months ago, I tried to help you get out of your organization. And two months later, you turned on me.
If you'd decided to fight for us three years ago, the pain of those changes would be over by now. Your life would look so much different than it is today and you would be settling into a new pattern with new ideas and new energy, with someone who loved you.
Eight months have passed since our last meeting.
What has your life been like these past eight months?
Are you still trapped? What books are you reading? Do you run? Do you have moments of peace? Have you shut off entirely?
When I saw you in Amsterdam Centraal last May, I hardly recognized you. You were so bleak and ugly. Rage and darkness seethed from you like snakes.You loved me once. How does love turn itself into that? Not by any calculus I know.
Two weeks later, you lied about me - or you signed off on the lie that they made, and you condemned me. In the end, it doesn't matter who invented it. You agreed to it. I still don't understand why. How could you do that?
I remember once, after I'd managed to do particularly good work at a conference in Tanzania in the fall of 2011, Eve followed me back to my hotel room so I could change and we could go to the market. As I dressed, I started to tremble and I couldn't stop. The tears came. I had lost you and the pain overtook me. I was so angry with myself that this sorrow was bigger than I was.
"It isn't getting any better," I told Eve. "I don't know what to do. Maybe this has turned into depression. It is so dark and I hurt so much."
Eve knew it was bad, but she did her best to make a path away from catastrophe. She said, "It isn't depression. It's grief. It hasn't gone away because there is so much of it. You don't know what the quantity of grief is. The volume may be so big that it takes longer to come out."
For me, it still is there. This love and deep grief for you. For me, they are two sides of the same coin. The magnitude of the grief is equal to the magnitude of the love. I must have loved you very much.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Breathing
Well, here it is: the first panic attack.
Pretty damn awesome I've gone this long without a problem. I feel fine emotionally - nothing worse than usual. But I can't breathe. My chest is so tight and I can't take in a full breath. I thought that activity would help so I went around the block. I thought lying down would help, so I stretched out on the floor and tried to meditate. But it doesn't work. Is it called a panic attack because it's caused by panic or because it induces it? I'm about ready to ask someone to punch a hole in my lung so I can get some air.
Lee made it to the facility in Arizona, and she registered. She told my mom that she would stay the full 90 days. So check that off my list of things to worry about.
I had lunch today with one of my Defense Contacts. This person told me that my old boss sabotaged a recent proposal I submitted to do work in Africa - by implying that I was guilty of something unmentionable. He wasn't called as a reference. He simply proffered this slander as a matter of course. The person he was speaking with knew me better than that, and didn't believe the lie. In fact, he continued to want my work and tried to figure out how he could move ahead with it. But he felt uncomfortable pursuing my work when he believed that my old organization wouldn't support.
Wow. What a champ.
I suppose I'd always guessed that this sort of thing might happen. How do you stop someone from spreading lies and rumors about you? How do you prevent it before it happens? It feels particularly awful that his lies actually prevented me from doing the work I should be doing. It means I won't be able to help the naval officers in a country I care about.
I suppose I have a slander case against this fella. And it certainly raises the stakes on a slander case against my Dutch friends. But I don't want to prosecute him for something naughty he does. I want to stop him before he causes more damage.
And I can't breathe.
Pretty damn awesome I've gone this long without a problem. I feel fine emotionally - nothing worse than usual. But I can't breathe. My chest is so tight and I can't take in a full breath. I thought that activity would help so I went around the block. I thought lying down would help, so I stretched out on the floor and tried to meditate. But it doesn't work. Is it called a panic attack because it's caused by panic or because it induces it? I'm about ready to ask someone to punch a hole in my lung so I can get some air.
Lee made it to the facility in Arizona, and she registered. She told my mom that she would stay the full 90 days. So check that off my list of things to worry about.
I had lunch today with one of my Defense Contacts. This person told me that my old boss sabotaged a recent proposal I submitted to do work in Africa - by implying that I was guilty of something unmentionable. He wasn't called as a reference. He simply proffered this slander as a matter of course. The person he was speaking with knew me better than that, and didn't believe the lie. In fact, he continued to want my work and tried to figure out how he could move ahead with it. But he felt uncomfortable pursuing my work when he believed that my old organization wouldn't support.
Wow. What a champ.
I suppose I'd always guessed that this sort of thing might happen. How do you stop someone from spreading lies and rumors about you? How do you prevent it before it happens? It feels particularly awful that his lies actually prevented me from doing the work I should be doing. It means I won't be able to help the naval officers in a country I care about.
I suppose I have a slander case against this fella. And it certainly raises the stakes on a slander case against my Dutch friends. But I don't want to prosecute him for something naughty he does. I want to stop him before he causes more damage.
And I can't breathe.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Escape from Rehab
Mom sent me a text message yesterday morning. Mom is notorious for bad-news texts. Once, while I was in the middle of international transit, she sent a text about an escaped convict who was trying to kill our family. I juggled my bag and phone while jogging through the CDG Paris airport to make a connection, and called her for clarification and to recommend a discussion with the local police.
The morning's text: "Please pray for Lee. She and another woman disappeared from the program last night."
So I called her. Lee's been in the rehab program for six months. In October, she was hospitalized and nearly kicked out of the program for suicidal plans. Yesterday, dad sent me the rehab's newsletter which featured a smiling, well-groomed, beautiful Lee prominently on its pages.
I love Lee. I thought the drugs thing was a phase. She was so bright and empathetic and articulate. She seemed so clear and perceptive about people.
I've known her for so long. I played surrogate mother to Lee when mom was sick and dad traveled. She used to sleep in my room because I protected her. When parent-teacher conferences came round, I would be the family rep. I read books out loud and made her meals and took her to school. There is a niche carved out in my soul where Lee belongs. I had confidence that Lee would join the ranks of the world's problem solvers. I thought she was smart enough to get close enough to drugs to sample and understand, but not so close that they would be the boss. I was wrong.
I got onto Facebook and left her a message with my phone number and instructions to call me. A few hours later, I noticed that she'd replied. But I'd been out.
This evening, we caught one another on FB. She texted me a phone number and I called.
She didn't sound like her. She was laughing when she picked up, but became serious quickly when I reminded her that I was worried.
She started with urgency and panic. She was suffering in the program. She had to get out.
Was she being harmed? Well, there wasn't one particular incident. She was working 54 hour weeks, lifting produce at a grocery store. There wasn't any therapy except twice each week when people stood around and yelled at each other. It was more of a pattern.
She wasn't court-ordered to the facility. She was free to leave at any time. Why sneak out in the night? She was afraid that she wouldn't be able to get her things if she tried to leave during the day. And they would yell at her.
I was the only person who could help her, she said. The program's director had mom and dad believing his bullshit. I had to be the one to rescue her.
This tugged at my gut. Of course, if I could rescue her from the past five years, I would do it. Even now, I would give anything to save her - actually save her.
What did she want from me? She wanted me to fly her back to my house and let her sleep on the floor. She said she was sober. But I didn't believe her. Her words were too pressured; her tactics of manipulation too glib. This is not my baby sister. She is a drug addict. I don't have a job or income. I'm starting a business out of my home. I can't have her here. Not especially when I don't know this person.
I've spent the day working, and alternating with juggling conflicting expectations and behavior from people. I've found her a transitional home in Arizona where she'll be required to work her way through the program. My parents are unhappy. They don't believe that she's being abused. They think she just wants an escape.
Perhaps they're correct. But I have no way of knowing where the truth lies.
So I wrote to Lee tonight. God only knows if she will hear me.
"Lee, I want you to know something.
The morning's text: "Please pray for Lee. She and another woman disappeared from the program last night."
So I called her. Lee's been in the rehab program for six months. In October, she was hospitalized and nearly kicked out of the program for suicidal plans. Yesterday, dad sent me the rehab's newsletter which featured a smiling, well-groomed, beautiful Lee prominently on its pages.
I love Lee. I thought the drugs thing was a phase. She was so bright and empathetic and articulate. She seemed so clear and perceptive about people.
I've known her for so long. I played surrogate mother to Lee when mom was sick and dad traveled. She used to sleep in my room because I protected her. When parent-teacher conferences came round, I would be the family rep. I read books out loud and made her meals and took her to school. There is a niche carved out in my soul where Lee belongs. I had confidence that Lee would join the ranks of the world's problem solvers. I thought she was smart enough to get close enough to drugs to sample and understand, but not so close that they would be the boss. I was wrong.
I got onto Facebook and left her a message with my phone number and instructions to call me. A few hours later, I noticed that she'd replied. But I'd been out.
This evening, we caught one another on FB. She texted me a phone number and I called.
She didn't sound like her. She was laughing when she picked up, but became serious quickly when I reminded her that I was worried.
She started with urgency and panic. She was suffering in the program. She had to get out.
Was she being harmed? Well, there wasn't one particular incident. She was working 54 hour weeks, lifting produce at a grocery store. There wasn't any therapy except twice each week when people stood around and yelled at each other. It was more of a pattern.
She wasn't court-ordered to the facility. She was free to leave at any time. Why sneak out in the night? She was afraid that she wouldn't be able to get her things if she tried to leave during the day. And they would yell at her.
I was the only person who could help her, she said. The program's director had mom and dad believing his bullshit. I had to be the one to rescue her.
This tugged at my gut. Of course, if I could rescue her from the past five years, I would do it. Even now, I would give anything to save her - actually save her.
What did she want from me? She wanted me to fly her back to my house and let her sleep on the floor. She said she was sober. But I didn't believe her. Her words were too pressured; her tactics of manipulation too glib. This is not my baby sister. She is a drug addict. I don't have a job or income. I'm starting a business out of my home. I can't have her here. Not especially when I don't know this person.
I've spent the day working, and alternating with juggling conflicting expectations and behavior from people. I've found her a transitional home in Arizona where she'll be required to work her way through the program. My parents are unhappy. They don't believe that she's being abused. They think she just wants an escape.
Perhaps they're correct. But I have no way of knowing where the truth lies.
So I wrote to Lee tonight. God only knows if she will hear me.
"Lee, I want you to know something.
I hope that you're being honest with me. I hope that I'm
doing the right thing by vouching for you and supporting the path for you to
leave Welcome Home.
I love you and I want you to be healthy and well. I would do
anything to be in a situation where we could live nearby and spend time
together and I could see you really and truly happy.
I want this to come because you commit to being free and
clear of the drug lifestyle - and because you remove yourself from anything
that diminishes the bright light that you are.
If you go to this facility in Arizona and commit to the
program, and work towards being healthy and clean and sober, and begin to patch
up your broken relationships with the people
you've hurt, this will go a long way to gaining my trust.
If you don't make this work - if I find that you were
manipulating my love for you so that you
could return to a drug lifestyle and drug habit that removes you from me - this
will harm your relationship with me very badly.
It will mean that I will not be able to support you again.
I knew you once very well. I knew the soul of you. And you
know me. Please choose to be a part of my life.
Please put yourself in a position to be close with me again."
Monday, January 13, 2014
Sunday Date
I met Harry for coffee at a café near Eastern Market. He was
37 years old and wore a sweater. His face had that puffiness that we all
acquire with age, and the loss of a jawline that accompanies it, and he styled
his hair the same way he had styled it since grade school, with gel on the cowlick
in the front.
This was my second blind date in two days. The idea is to
get out and meet people.
I’ve only been in love with one man. One man who made my heart race when he was near. Who made my soul sing when I was with him. One man I ached to be with. But I’ve cared for a few men, and I’ve even loved a few. And there are still others for whom our natural affinities might have created a good bond for a couple of decades (had they been available). So why not seek out people, spend time with them, and see if there is something to respect and enjoy?
I’ve only been in love with one man. One man who made my heart race when he was near. Who made my soul sing when I was with him. One man I ached to be with. But I’ve cared for a few men, and I’ve even loved a few. And there are still others for whom our natural affinities might have created a good bond for a couple of decades (had they been available). So why not seek out people, spend time with them, and see if there is something to respect and enjoy?
I remind myself that I did not love Hans immediately. That
trait developed over time. So I give these men some time.
Harry bought me a cappucinno. He was nervous. I was not. Nervousness
comes from having an investment and having hope. Is this the one? Could this be something important?
My standard is different: I’m wondering if this is better than sitting on my couch in my pajamas (the alternate activity for the morning). Already he’s winning that battle. It’s a good idea to set the bar really low. I buy him his second coffee and subject him to a recounting of my business development.
My standard is different: I’m wondering if this is better than sitting on my couch in my pajamas (the alternate activity for the morning). Already he’s winning that battle. It’s a good idea to set the bar really low. I buy him his second coffee and subject him to a recounting of my business development.
I ask him questions. Where was he from? What had his career
looked like until that point? What did he do for fun? Where had he been in the
world? What was his family like?
He’s nice, and he's had experiences. He’s traveled the world – even spent time in
Eastern Europe and has some nice stories
to tell. We go to the market, wander about. We eat lunch. We walk
to the car. He asks if he can see me again. He drops me off at the metro stop. He's nice.
I feel sad and empty. A melancholy settles over me that I cannot
shake. My conscious mind did not allow the comparison between what was in front
of me and what I loved. Instead, I was trying to make the comparison with this spending-of-the-morning, and a day on the couch. But I cannot stop the subconscious from going to that place where I was loved passionately and where I loved desperately.
I walk to the National Gallery of art. But the paintings are
too prescient. They are of the same variant of reality that I saw when I was
with Sjors. When I was with him, it was like looking at the sun and I knew it
was the sun – and I was ashamed of myself for doubting that the sun existed.
I can’t bear to look at Van Gogh. Vermeer. Rembrandt. It's
like putting my hand on the stove.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Family outing and a date
Eve and JK and Tim came to visit. It was the first time I've been with my alternate family in more than a year. My tiny rooms were crowded with people and luggage and there was hardly a place to sleep. But it was so nice to have them around. I made them eggs and coffee and fruit in the morning for breakfast. Eve and I tried to work during the day. We went to dinner and a movie last night. Tim picked up the bill (for which I was grateful. I have no income). This morning, JK made me coffee, and Tim toasted and buttered a bagel for me. There is a familiar, filial sense in this. It hooked into the part of me that was comforted by them when I was dark. I am filled with gratitude that they were there when I was in the bottom of the pit.
I awakened early this morning and spent time answering John's e-mail. He'd sent me a long missive about the recent mission he'd planned and supported.
Today, I went on a date. It wasn't anything special, but I didn't expect it to be. This is living. This is what people do. And then I go to a café and try to put together a proposal. Try to figure out how to make things work better - how to help my African friends. I read the after-action report from the Dutch mission and see all the same pitfalls we always stumbled into. Is there a way to avoid them?
I awakened early this morning and spent time answering John's e-mail. He'd sent me a long missive about the recent mission he'd planned and supported.
Today, I went on a date. It wasn't anything special, but I didn't expect it to be. This is living. This is what people do. And then I go to a café and try to put together a proposal. Try to figure out how to make things work better - how to help my African friends. I read the after-action report from the Dutch mission and see all the same pitfalls we always stumbled into. Is there a way to avoid them?
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Rewriting
My sister keeps telling me to write everything down. Not the constant record-keeping and note-taking I do anyway. But to use my copious notes to write a book. To publish. To expose everyone. To recount every awful thing that happened and to make sure the world knows what you've done.
I can't say I haven't thought a lot about it. Especially these days, when all I seem to have is time. I work and I write papers for scholarly publication and I try to get contracts and I try to keep my programs alive and I try to protect my intellectual property and I burn through my savings.
There is a particular appeal in punishing those who were responsible by exposing them and making MIVD look like incompetent idiots: so obvious that an analyst with a laptop and a brain could see them.
But the truth is: there is part of me that has been writing a book all along: an alternate narrative where nobody interfered in my relationship with Sjors; where we were able to make our own choices and learn each other and live without fear, and live in love; where he was able to heal from the emotional wounds he suffered in battle. Where he wasn't forced into an impossible decision and where he didn't betray me. I sometimes feel that story when I dream. When I lie in bed alone at night. There was a story where I didn't become what I am now: intellect and grief.
I used all of my powers of analysis and imagination to save him from the hell he hated. And he returned to it anyway. Was there something else I could have done besides love him?
If I write down what you did - the terrible truth of what has happened, then that reality is the one that wins. There is no ending where I can be with him. There is no dénouement that lets me hold him one last time. The awful reality, the worst case scenario, is where I find myself now.
Emily reminds me, "It will all be alright in the end. If it's not alright its not the end".
I had lunch today with the friend who regretted his decision not to be with the woman he loved. I told him I was doing online dating and it baffled him. He immediately started naming people he knew he could arrange for me to meet.
"I'm not looking for a mate," I told him. "I don't need anyone to take care of me and I'm not interested in company for the sake of not being alone."
"I'm also not looking for love. I had that. The real thing. And I don't think you get that kind of love twice in a lifetime."
"But I could use someone who makes me laugh. And someone who knows how to make love to me. Someone who doesn't expect that I can give him my heart."
I can't fucking fake it. The truth is: I loved Sjors more than my own soul. Every day that I am without him causes me so much pain. I can't write that story. That is a sad story.
You put him where he is now. So you take care of him. If he is miserable, then give him lots of interesting tasks to keep him occupied. Don't let him get hurt. Don't shut him down any more than he already is. Use him on missions that change the world. He traded me for whatever picture you painted - so follow through on your promise. You took him, so make it count, you fuckers.
I can't say I haven't thought a lot about it. Especially these days, when all I seem to have is time. I work and I write papers for scholarly publication and I try to get contracts and I try to keep my programs alive and I try to protect my intellectual property and I burn through my savings.
There is a particular appeal in punishing those who were responsible by exposing them and making MIVD look like incompetent idiots: so obvious that an analyst with a laptop and a brain could see them.
But the truth is: there is part of me that has been writing a book all along: an alternate narrative where nobody interfered in my relationship with Sjors; where we were able to make our own choices and learn each other and live without fear, and live in love; where he was able to heal from the emotional wounds he suffered in battle. Where he wasn't forced into an impossible decision and where he didn't betray me. I sometimes feel that story when I dream. When I lie in bed alone at night. There was a story where I didn't become what I am now: intellect and grief.
I used all of my powers of analysis and imagination to save him from the hell he hated. And he returned to it anyway. Was there something else I could have done besides love him?
If I write down what you did - the terrible truth of what has happened, then that reality is the one that wins. There is no ending where I can be with him. There is no dénouement that lets me hold him one last time. The awful reality, the worst case scenario, is where I find myself now.
Emily reminds me, "It will all be alright in the end. If it's not alright its not the end".
I had lunch today with the friend who regretted his decision not to be with the woman he loved. I told him I was doing online dating and it baffled him. He immediately started naming people he knew he could arrange for me to meet.
"I'm not looking for a mate," I told him. "I don't need anyone to take care of me and I'm not interested in company for the sake of not being alone."
"I'm also not looking for love. I had that. The real thing. And I don't think you get that kind of love twice in a lifetime."
"But I could use someone who makes me laugh. And someone who knows how to make love to me. Someone who doesn't expect that I can give him my heart."
I can't fucking fake it. The truth is: I loved Sjors more than my own soul. Every day that I am without him causes me so much pain. I can't write that story. That is a sad story.
You put him where he is now. So you take care of him. If he is miserable, then give him lots of interesting tasks to keep him occupied. Don't let him get hurt. Don't shut him down any more than he already is. Use him on missions that change the world. He traded me for whatever picture you painted - so follow through on your promise. You took him, so make it count, you fuckers.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
The sum of days
More time has passed since we parted than the total time I knew you.
I tell myself that this should count more than you did.
But it is a lie.
The number does not seem to matter.
So many days that I have been without you.
And so many more to come.
They line up like good little soldiers as far as I can see.
And this empty, aching spot in the center of me.
"As tho to breathe were life"
I miss you.
I tell myself that this should count more than you did.
But it is a lie.
The number does not seem to matter.
So many days that I have been without you.
And so many more to come.
They line up like good little soldiers as far as I can see.
And this empty, aching spot in the center of me.
"As tho to breathe were life"
I miss you.
Monday, January 6, 2014
From Ulysses
I cannot rest from
travel: I will drink
Life to the lees:
All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have
suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and
alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding
drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I
am become a name;
For always roaming
with a hungry heart
Much have I seen
and known; cities of men
And manners,
climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least,
but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight
of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing
plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all
that I have met;
Yet all experience
is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd
world whose margin fades
For ever and
forever when I move.
How dull it is to
pause, to make an end,
To rust
unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe
were life! Life piled on life
Were all too
little, and of one to me
Little remains: but
every hour is saved
From that eternal
silence, something more,
A bringer of new
things; and vile it were
For some three suns
to store and hoard myself,
And this gray
spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge
like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost
bound of human thought.
…
Death closes all:
but something ere the end,
Some work of noble
note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men
that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to
twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes:
the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with
many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late
to seek a newer world.
Push off, and
sitting well in order smite
The sounding
furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the
sunset, and the baths
Of all the western
stars, until I die.
It may be that the
gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall
touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great
Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken,
much abides; and tho'
We are not now that
strength which in old days
Moved earth and
heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of
heroic hearts,
Made weak by time
and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not
to yield.
Friday, January 3, 2014
The sun
It's been a strange couple of days. The sun was out yesterday on the first day of the year and I felt hopeful - and a sense of enthusiastic curiosity I haven't felt in a long time. I walked outside, into Old Town, and bought kale and spinach and fruit - and made a swiggy. I met Shelly for lunch and conversation. And then took the train to Sarah's house for dinner where I had great company and conversation for hours. This morning, I awakened to a phone call from one of my friends in the Cameroon Special Forces. He wished me a happy new year and wanted to hear my sleepy voice. What a great guy. Somehow, the grinning fool managed to get inside my heart and I really love hearing from him. He is one of the reasons I do what I do...why I MUST do what I do. I have to work. I have to publish. I have to change the way capacity building is conducted. I have to help him save his country.
In the past week, I finally claimed the friendships I have in the Dutch Navy and Marine Corps on linkedIn. For so long, I was afraid I was contaminated. I didn't want to taint them with whatever stink MIVD had tried to wipe on me. But enough time had passed and I thought, "what the hell? They can always say no". But every single one of them accepted my contact within hours of the invitation. God, that felt good. It felt like I was taking something back that had been stolen. And then my frogman responded to my text and gave me his kisses on Christmas. There are so many beautiful things in the world and I can feel them. For all the hell I've been mired in, I've been luckier than most in the friends I've made and the caring that people have given me.
In the last week, I've written one new scholarly paper to submit and amended a second for resubmission. I wrapped this second one up tonight and fixed the references.
I spent time with my sister and parents and my niece. There are beautiful people in the world.
There was a meeting at my lawyer's office this afternoon. I walked and took a taxi - and then returned home on the bus via Shirlington where I stopped for a salad and more writing on the papers. I had approached the meeting with such dread. I hate everything that the company has tried to do to me. Everything they've tried to take.
Perhaps a part of me felt that there could have been a different path - some option behind door #3 that could have spared me this. I've often wondered if there was some incantation I could have said to change the state of affairs as they are now. But you can't change someone's mind when they're set on it. You cannot force someone else to make a good or reasonable decision. And the company didn't make a reasoned decision based on the facts. They wanted to punish me. They wanted to put me into a box that they could understand. But I crossed the Rubicon a long time ago - if I wasn't going to get in the box when Sjors wanted me to, why the fuck would I do it for them?
Today they were on the phone, misrepresenting the truth to a third party and I thought, "Aha. Even they don't feel that their actions have been defensible. You don't misrepresent the series of events if you feel that you are in the right." And then my baby-faced lawyer calmly pulled the thread on their words and their malice was uncomfortably exposed - like wearing a pair of saggy grey granny panties under a pair of tailored white Prada shorts.
I may not have much. I don't have a salary. I'm whittling away my savings in huge chunks. But I have my ideas. And I have my integrity.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
In the rain
I went for a walk in the jungle with my sister, brother-in-law, and the doodle-bug, a 10-month-old girl with white-blonde hair and startling problem-solving-skills.
It started to rain. We continued walking, until the rain turned into a deluge, and we sheltered beneath the trees. It reminded me of Limbe on Palm Sunday all those years ago: little girls in their pink frilly frocks running through puddles and carrying palm fronds as umbrellas.
I didn't mind the rain too much. But I was worried about the doodle-bug. The water was so heavy and insistent, I wondered how she was taking it. After 25 minutes of constant downpour, I was wet and uncomfortable. The stroller was filled with water. The doodle-bug had to be uncomfortable.
The stockings on doodle's little feet dripped and drizzled water. Water streamed down her cheeks and slicked her hair down. And this beautiful kid's face was wreathed in smiles. She clucked and cooed and giggled and splashed her hands in the water.
It amazes me how ready she is to smile. The way she sees the world: as something which she expects will make her happy. Even the rain delights her. I want to be like that.
So many awful things have happened. I've lost so much. For so long, this was what I saw: a count of the accumulating losses. Even now, I don't dare look behind me because the carnage is still too close, and the darkness can overwhelm. Sometimes, it takes the breath out of me. I don't want the darkness to define me this year.
I want to be in the middle of a thunderstorm and laugh because of the sheer joy of it.
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