encore

Why do we love? It gives us hope of escaping a solitary existence.
Eddie, in Three Dollars

The last time I saw her was one year, one month and two days after the time before. Whereas the earlier of the two occasions left me in considerable confusion (though perhaps it shouldn't have) and consequently, a proportionate measure of hope, the more recent encounter left less room for disputing the desirability, if not imperative, of moving on.

To describe the intervening period as "a blur" is at once an understatement and a misstatement. A flurry of feelings, longing, hurt, helplessness, regret, self-pity, ...,­ ceaselessly collided into one another to create flavours of poignancy none novel and all unpalatable, even to a lover of the melodramatic such as myself. Yet at the same time I was steered by a stern clarity of direction which only in hindsight, not a moment sooner, could be properly attributed to a profound lack of perspective and of insight alike. When I look back on 2006 I don't understand how I got anything else done.

Hope may be all that it is cracked up to be, but false hope merely lengthens the days to delay the facing of the very truth which one had set out to stall indefinitely by clinging to whatever falsity one's fancy takes. I am told that a common manifestation of obsession is the repeated setting by one of "tests" which it is impossible for one's object of obsession to fail. For more than three hundred and ninety-seven days I indulged in wishful thinking and futile speculation when the truth is, has been, as blindingly obvious as I had tried to remain blind to it, that I was always going to be on my own amidst the flurry, and that whatever I thought I had to give did not, could never, justify what I had done - far less what I was hoping for.

As I sat beside her on the guest bed in the living room of her apartment (a bed which, had it been actually offered to me rather than in a roundabout or, more plausibly, imagined sort of way, I almost certainly would've been unable to decline despite the absurdity of the scenario in which we would've found ourselves: she making room for me in her living room after all these months of having no room for me in her life) for most of my ninety-minute interstate visit, I did not, contrary to my secret fears, find myself burning with desire or being tortured by all-the-things-I-wanted-to-say-but-couldn't. And what vestige I felt of the way we were in the days before the mess, whatever comfort this afforded, I knew even before I finally brought myself to say goodnight that that, the warmth of nostalgia and nothing more, would mark the perimeter of our acquaintance from now on. Something's been lost and I've nothing to show for it.

I don't agree that we cannot choose who we love. We choose them the same way we choose everything else - university courses, careers, places of residence, holiday destinations, friends - that is, with little knowledge and boundless optimism, weighing up all our options (including that of choosing none); but it is a choice nonetheless. And if I were proved wrong and the so-called choices illusory, we can at least choose how we love. For more than a year I chose to pine for someone single-mindedly, stubbornly, fruitlessly, when I should have, could have, loved everyone, including myself, including that someone, a little more. By this choice I was left the poorer, and lost a part of myself without which I wouldn't be me. Until recently I'd had no cause to doubt my capacity to love.

But I did love her. I do so. Whatever bruised ego, selfishness and inexcusable stupidity have tainted my love along the way, it is there in the knot in my throat, at the tip of my tongue, in the corner of my eye, beneath the newer sediments of memory which have already begun to accumulate. It reminds me by the tightness in my chest, the sweat in my palms and the panic in my voice whenever I am reminded of her - never mind that I'm the only one to know any of this - that a part of my heart is hers forever. By renouncing my ...­ fixation, I do not mean to reject all that it was; I couldn't if I tried. But there is nothing quite like loving someone who just wants to polite.

It would have taken next to nothing to not only shake, but annihilate, my resolve - even as I was making my way out of her apartment that last time; even now. Lucky for me (though it will be another while before I can honestly see it this way) next-to-nothing is, always has been, too much to ask. I'd be lying if I said that it matters to me no more what she knows and how she feels about all this. But I am smacked with the larger truth that for every bit that I continue to allow it to matter, I am that much further away from reclaiming that in me which is worthy of being loved, and of loving another.

Two weeks ago tonight I said goodbye.

my best friend's wedding

Calm down y'all, Dr P is not getting hitched (anytime soon, that I know of). This post is in honour of another best friend, from a time long ago in a land far away; but may contain comparable levels of self-indulgent flaunting of non-sexual girl-on-girl love.

We met at age six, at the bottom of an external staircase leading from the older of two buildings in our primary school, into the smaller of its two courtyards. I have little or no (conscious) memory of a time in my life when I did not know her. In this respect, and in many others, she is true family.

When we were children together, I envied her her freedom (to attend/hold play-dates, cycle to school, manage her pocket money, ... all the important privileges of being 12-and-under), her parents, their means and lifestyle and not only in monetary terms. Then as we grew up apart without growing apart, and she said more and I listened more, I admired her her fortitude - and infectious positivity - in the face of troubles greater and more real than my own.

This January she married her boyfriend of some five(?) years. She wanted so much for me to be there on the big day, and I try hard not to over-analyse the reasons for my so letting her down...

Last week I finally watched the wedding DVD. For all its tacky captioning, predictable background music and amateur production, it made for a stirring view. The limo gliding through streets where we had left footprints side-by-side a lifetime ago; the parents who, whilst clearly recognisable, have been weighed down by the fruits and burdens of the intervening years; the bridal party, not a single familiar face; and of course, the bride, stunning, beaming and composed, next to her shy and overjoyed groom.

It should have been me - next to, not instead of, the bride - monitoring her presentation, carrying her trinkets, safekeeping gifts, drinking on her behalf. Not someone who never saw her in skirts with suspenders / wagged phys ed with her / passed notes to her under the desk. But that someone was there when I wasn't, and 'tis a regret that'll haunt me 'til the end of my days.

moonlighting: reload

Yesterday I left Work five-on-the-dot, dashed home to grab a bite / change out of my daytime attire (read: non-bogan), then headed back out into the stormy moonless night. Thus re-launched my secret double (working) life.

Before you thump me, friends, save your strength: I have not heeded the calling of the Sunflower (this fourth time 'round). 'tis to another of my numerous pecuniarily profitable talents that I owe the pleasure of my latest venture; namely, early childhood education (argh the cheek of me).

I am indebted also to my runner-up Most Prolific Pimp (closely behind Other Mother), Wonderwoman (a.k.a. former boss / daughter-in-law of Sunflower boss / soon-to-be Sunflower boss?), who decided to place a small part of the futures of her niece and two nephews in my weathered, unsteady hands.

H6, T7 and G11 moved to Oz some weeks ago from Taiwan, and are now going through that formative time in every young immigrant's life when everything's a hard slog and nothing's much fun. And it is my role to facilitate their smooth and hassle-minimal (for the parents, at least) transition into a not-sure-how-much-different-it-can-be-initially-what-with-same-food-same-interior-deco-relatives-living-on-same-street way of life.

'tis easy to presume, I suppose, given my warm demeanour and minimalist lifestyle, that I cannot be motivated by anything other than a genuine and profound concern for the welfare - not only of my fellow beings, but also of their spawn. However, those nearest and dearest to me would surely know better (or ought to): 'tis mostly about the dosh. The altruism is in there somewhere too, not that it signifies anything one way or the other; but I am more excited about the slackening of my food budget and other implications of the re-opening of this additional income stream.

'twas a relatively painless two hours of my evening, though I'd expected to have more fun - if it is even possible to have expectations about these things. In between: resisting being called "Teacher" ("Old Master" in Chinese) / the kids tactlessly (obviously, being children) pointing out my smelliness (due to omission of post-rain shower) / the mum poking her head in every 5 minutes and shushing them / an aunt (not Wonderwoman) playing disciplinarian where I would not and mum could not – I had trouble remembering what it was that I, or rather we, scattered around a cluttered living room in a foreign land, were hoping to accomplish.