Yearning

"Yearning is not only a good way to go crazy, but also a pretty good place to hide out from hard truth." (Jay Cocks, screenwriter, De-Lovely)


It's easy to be overcome by yearning. We live in a society that encourages it, advertising all the things we could have if only... (if only we had that job or that spouse or that degree from that school)... all the things they have (and look how happy they are!) Yearning sets us to work toward goals that, while seemingly good, put so much emphasis on the future we are saving for that we don't live well in the present. Then, we look back and say, "What was that all about?" (at which point it can become an equally "present-killing" distraction to live in the past, mulling over romanticized versions of the way things were along with stewing over regrets and "what if?"s.)

In this blog, I realize that I tread on shaky ground: wanting to sort out my past so I don't repeat its mistakes in the future. It's easy to neglect the present. Yearning is such a directional thing, always reaching forward or backward, out of the present. Treading water may seem like a waste of time. I mean, I'm drowning, for crying out loud! Shouldn't I be a-reachin' for something? It's in those still moments of treading water, however, that we are able to look around (to the past, to the future, to the options that we might never notice if not for the moments of stagnancy).

I'm going to continue the memoir aspect of this blog, but I'm going to also try to bring myself occasionally to the harbor of Now, because "now" is yesterday's future and tomorrow's past.


I am filled with yearning--so much so that it's almost a palpable presence, an entity that follows me, standing between me and the people in my life, blocking my view, casting shadows. I'm lonely, even though I am not alone. I'm bored, even though I have too much that needs to be done. I think it's because I'm disconnected. I need to find those connections that are real and truthful, rather than "hiding out" in the shadows of yearning.

Even my "therapist" can't help me with this. The more I connect with him the more I fear him. He makes the slightest little comment on something I wasn't saying to him... and I feel threatened, even stalked. He wants to be my friend, and I'm pushing him away because I feel the need to keep him neutral, objective, uninvolved... (and possibly also because I fear that if he takes too much interest in my life, I'll go weak at the knees and find myself yearning for more than just his advice.)

The last time my yearning meter was this high, I made a really big mistake that almost destroyed a lot of people, a mistake that still looms over me with threatening posture. Perhaps I'll work up the nerve to write about that soon.

I do want the hard truth, and I don't want to go crazy... so, I'd better tread some water, pay attention to the yearning meter, and try to get my bearings before panic causes me to drown.

Delusions and Contraditions

I vaguely remember, in a college acting class, performing the overdone Carla monologue from Robert Patrick's classic play, Kennedy's Children: "I wanted to be a sex goddess..."

Guess it makes sense that I'd choose such a monologue, especially given the meaning of my name: a snare.

"...I wanted to be the unattainable luring love that drives men on..."

All the time in college, not being asked out, was taking a toll on my self-esteem. With each passing banquet that I wasn't invited to, I felt more and more unwanted. Then along came my Hollywood agent and the discovery that I could, in fact, manipulate men... at least some men (but rarely the ones I wanted).

As the character said in the monologue, I still wanted to be that poetic "angle of light" in the eyes of Jared or Glenn (if I couldn't have Doug)... but they all seemed to be unmoved.

They were unmoved, but that wasn't the case with all men. As time wore on, I discovered that physical attraction was not the only thing I had control over when it came to manipulating men. I learned a sensual tension that could even be sparked with the right clever words delivered in the right manner. As much as I loved (and still love) words, it delighted me to discover that there were men who found mental intrigue sexy. Unfortunately, I didn't learn this until after I was married.

I know I'm not nearly as physically attractive now as I used to be. I often feel invisible to the men who pass by me these days; however, there are still times when I feel that I have to pull back on some invisible force, some "lure" that is so deeply a part of me that it sneaks to the surface when I least expect it. That may be delusional.

This past week, I've been away on business--in a different environment, miles and miles away from home and family, and husband. I've met a lot of new people, most of them men, and I've felt some of their eyes wandering enough that my friend and I joked about getting t-shirts with bold letters across the chest that read: "These are not my eyes." It's been rather annoying, but the one thing that hasn't been annoying is the one gentleman, who has seemed rather intrigued with me, conversing with me on a deeper level and seeming to appreciate my mind and talent. Once again, I may be totally reading things into his interaction with me, but I must say the attention (even if it's purely in my imagination) has been nice. Like the Kennedy's Children monologue said, Marilyn Monroe claimed that she didn't want to be a sex goddesses--she wanted to be a human being. So often, I feel like all my husband really wants me for is for my body, and that is so empty to me.

At an after-party tonight, I had enough to drink to get a little loopy and let down my guard a bit more than I probably should have. You could say that I was a little flirty with this guy. It certainly wasn't blatant, and nothing "bad" happened, but I did find myself wishing that I weren't married, knowing that if I weren't I definitely would have upped the flirtation level and possibly even been open to a little fling. It's hard to be yearning so deeply for a mental connection that seems impossible with my mate. This fellow probably wouldn't be a Mr. Right either, but to me he served as a reminder that there might be men out there with whom I could have such a deeper connection, and that even if there are, I can't have them.

Sigh. Heavy sigh.

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart (part 4)

There's a clump wadded up in the corner.
I pause as I'm sorting through the clutter,
wondering if I should just throw it out
and clear the floor for sweeping,
for dancing,
for moving about freely.

The recollection is vague--
what's inside the clump--
the crinkled letters, words,
thoughts, feelings, events, touch, tears,
the journey,
the dreams and prayers,
some of my deepest years shared with another,
soaked in my deepest tears shed over any yearning,
torn by my deepest fears
that wrapped the deepest of loves
until it suffocated.

The clump's always been there.
Sometimes I'm so used to it
It becomes part of the texture of the rugs
and the tapestries
part of the pattern
yet
indiscernible as anything more
than a clump,
a useless thing.

When I have approached,
to try to smooth it out enough to see,
to comprehend,
I've been chided,
"Just throw it out and forget about it!"
Forget about it?
Forget about what?
Can I throw out that which I'm unable to grasp?
Or will phantom clump continue to haunt,
continue to trip me up,
continue to thwart the dancing
for which I know this floor was intended?