literature

She's Not There

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Literature Text

Well let me tell you 'bout the way she looked
The way she'd act and the colour of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there!

Cruise cessation, smoking, and other things I've happily given up

There's always some sentiment to start with the beginning, yet at my age the beginning could be many years ago, with only thin strands connecting one important moment with another. Yet, in fairness, and with respect to the great mystery and wonder what comes with living our lives over time, even these little moments are memorable and important for their own reasons. The only thing to do is get to know how to put them together afterward, since they happened the way they happened in quite the spectacle in which they were lived.

This story has to do with change, that ever-constant which I, as a lifelong non-conformist, have bucked against for being that tired old adage we get handed from our parents to hand further down to our own kids. It seemed like such a waste, to recycle such good ideas like that and not let them breathe, let them live in their own time, and to let them die. But, alas, I am not here to take down a super-structure of literature, but in fact infuse my own molten rebar through it. My wife told me that every seven years are separate from one another in a person's life, and that ever seven years we must get used to ourselves again. Perhaps I was in my fourth quarter, and at twenty-eight I was willing to listen with convenience. Perhaps, even better, what she said was true, and my son will one day discover for himself the reason we do these things for now I am tired of such childish pursuits as proof. I need to take a few things on faith. It's easier that way.

My wife and I went on our honeymoon this past week and have recently wrapped up that special occasion with gusto and have fallen prey to exhaustion. Somehow, I expected it to have the same uncanny feeling that I had expected at the wedding. The first few times that certain ceremonial activities were disillusioned for me, I felt quite disappointed. Sitting beside myself, it seems best to chuckle at the expectations of my younger self, since laughter heals those wounds most quickly. The pictures are coming out nicely, at least as far as the one we've seen, but the photographer is still human and subject to her own priorities instead of mine. It may have been quicker to hire a robot, but I don't think it would have gotten the sentiment quite right. I'm getting better at waiting for people to care about my life as much as I do. I admit, it comes with a begrudging acceptance that avoiding them is not really sparing them my self-proclaimed terror lifestyle. Before I can forgive them for being human I have to accept, not just fake, that there is actual allowance for making mistakes. All of those terrible things which make people mesh with each other, their betrayal, and their hate, and their selfishness, is always overwhelmed by their return to their friends and family. For some it's shame, for some it's guilt--it's all the same to stitch this quilt. People infrequently forgive because they understand, but rather they forgive because they know that they, too, do not understand.

On the train back from the honeymoon, I thought up a complicated comment, a compliment, for my new wife which I couldn't say out loud. In writing this down, I still haven't said it because before I thought of this I learned one of the best lessons in marriage: some things are better left unsaid. The sensation was quite strange, but quite simple. Following the week vacation Stefanie and I had taken, I noticed on the train ride home a higher concentration of women than men. Since we had taken our vacation in late June, following the wedding, we were returning just before July. In the early summer morning on the Sunday of our return the train was populated with airy women who were dressed to be caressed by the sun, with t-shirts and sundresses. I got the strangest sensation while noticing this, with my wife's head on my shoulder periodically as these fit young women walked back and forth across the train. They were all quite attractive, radiant even, and I thought to myself, "my wife has opened my eyes to the beauty of the women around me."  Where they were attractive, and where attractive would normally be interrupted in the interest of insemination, my basest biological needs which manifest as dancing and other foolish social activities, their attraction was suddenly pure. They were beautiful, and lovely, and I was able to take in the sights while knowing no pressure. I felt such wonderful relief. American Mating Rituals had given me such a terrible case of performance anxiety, and now that I was clasped in the world's tiniest handcuff, I was wonderfully, humanly, ironically free. A tiny voice in my head corrected me as I turned to my wife to tell her the good news, reminded me that some things are better left unsaid, and convinced me to kiss her on the head instead.
As a welcome return to the thing I love to do--share my epiphanies with you. This one's very journal-esque, but fuck it; so isn't the body of my work. The sentiment could probably do with improvement, as far as presentation goes, but that would require a more discerning audience.. of course, no offense.


But maybe

Maybe, if someone asks and ... we'll call it "collaborates" on this piece, I'll polish it up. For now it provides the seat in which the idea rests --catharsis, or whatever the "I was at peace before I started" equivalent would be.


oh, and the "she's not there" title is super misleading. It's just the tune of the song I misinterpreted in the opening bars of the piece, from the Zombies, "She's not there"

In case my description was unclear, the words I put up are not the lyrics to the song, but instead an ode to the fact that people have different lyrics in their heads than the lyrics to a song, but they can still be moved by the rhythm, even if they can't show it so directly as something like lyrics.
© 2013 - 2024 shufflng
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