closing time…

When I first moved into this sleepy apartment on a tree-lined street, I was a binge-drinking project manager; I abandoned one significant relationship in pursuit of another — a bottle of red wine. The drink blurs and numbs, tells you to not make waves, not splash your way through the water. Angry and confused, I started work on a memoir about a life spent with a woman who would be my first and only hurt. I was content to breathe underwater. Skirt the edges of things, live amongst the fringe. Always I thought language would save me; I’d write my way out of the dark if I had to. People would tell me that I was talented, so very talented, at committing words to paper. Little did they know I was swallowing voice. Writing things uncertain of their meaning. Not having the poise, confidence and conviction in the strange, arcane lens through which I see the world as I do now. So back then I wrote and wrote and tore and shredded and read sentences aloud that held no meaning.

I had a circle of smart, well-read friends that I wasn’t certain I loved, much less liked. It was so hard to keep up with the literary magazines, the latest in the New Yorker, the wunderkind du jour, the peanut-crunching set that made art seem more transactional than it ever needed to be. In the midst of this I forged a deep seven-year friendship with a woman who would carry me through to sobriety and someplace other. Now I’ve been excised, without warning, without word, from the most amazing moments of her life. Odd how two people who have a penchant for language can’t form the words to tell one another, goodbye.

I moved into this apartment one person and am leaving as another. These are the words that one could use to describe me now: author, compassionate, sober, less judgmental, honest, confident, professional, pensive, softer (friends who know me longest could believe), slightly more patient, forgiving, forgetting, loyal. Breathing on dry land.

Funny how time sorts things.

After five years of living in my apartment, I’m preparing to move. I’ve taped up the boxes and wrapped up the plates, and I find myself sorting through old papers and photographs — reminders of the woman I used to be. I’m editing my possessions, determining which things can accompany me and which need to be discarded. Over the course of ten hours I was shocked over how many books I had accumulated, how I still kept floppy disks and gifts that require shedding and burning. I found bottles of alcohol that had distilled and discolored. A shaker set worth shaking.

Although I’m not fully packed, I’ve had to make the difficult decision to part with seven overflowing bags of clothes, books, beauty products and objects that once held my affection. And this part feels like a limb being wrested from one’s body. Slivers of skin pared off. I tell myself that I have to let go. I have to prepare for what’s next.

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 27th, 2010 at 9:49 am and is filed under daily murmurs. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.