Vincent Square Chapter 2: Sutherland Place

By the time we had landed in London we had already formed our own click and established our roommates.  There were 6 of us that had bonded over cigarettes, weed, beers and fear of the unknown.  Tegan was the lanky, tall, shy guy with a hint of internal angst hippie from the middle of nowhere, Jason was the sweet and stalky outdoorsy intellect from Maine and Joel was the snarky, grumpy Jew from NYC.  The other new female addition besides Maris and I was Liz, the unique, crass spirit from Colorado that twirled her hair and sucked her thumb.  I equated her behavior to an intense phallic tendency and left it at that.  

And so there we had it.  Our own little ‘Real World’ – 6 strangers set to live in a house, on a street, in London. 

Despite the odds of what we were told we found a place fairly quickly.  Of course it was over budget, two blocks away from the University and smack dab in the middle of Kensington but we didn’t care.  We even had an old crotchety landlord named Mr. Darcy which we considered to be an obvious sign that the house had to be ours.  It was a 3 story brownstone; it fit us all perfectly so we settled in.  35 Sutherland Place off of Westbourne Grove.  A street lined with brownstones, a church and pubs nearby.  Perfect.  

The first night in our new home we sat in our enormous living room with windows taller than each of us.  We had scored some hash at the local pub and told stories of our lives as we smoked and poured back pints.  For what was so new and strange we all seemed to comfortably mold into our new reality.  We talked about ‘rules’, and having family dinners every Sunday and of all of the places that we would travel while on our breaks.  Every moment was an oyster to be opened to find some new and beautiful possible path.  

From the get go it was pretty clear what roles we would all play.  Maris was the social butterfly and had more friends and plans in the first 48 hours than many of us had for our entire tenure there however she made it easy for us to just tag along when we felt like it.  Liz was oddly reclusive and spent a lot of time having phone sex with her boyfriend back in Colorado.  Joel always seemed to be networking.  Jason spent a lot of time exploring the city and mapping out all that he wanted to see and experience.  Tegan and I spent a lot of time scraping the bowl of my bong trying to get high.  We were the poorest of the group so our options were always more limited.  We had an affinity towards each other given our financial predicament and often talked about books, poetry and shared our love of music.  I was fortunate enough to have my own bedroom on the third floor and the view from my window was roof and chimney tops.  It was a peaceful hideaway for us to unlock the mysteries of the world. We were good friends.  He was like a little brother.

When I wasn’t in school I was meandering around Kensington Park, or sitting in the Pub writing in my journal, writing letters, bantering with new found friends or calling home and filling Delilah in on every detail of my not so interesting life.  I was melding and molding in.  Trying to avoid seeming like a tourist.  

My first three weeks in London I never saw the sun.  Not once.  Not the sun or the moon.  It was cloudy in the day and cloudy in the night and for all appearances was exactly how I had anticipated London to be.  But I missed my moon and I felt far away from everyone that I loved.  Regardless of how at home I had felt instantly upon arriving.  I was in transition.

But perhaps that’s what I need to explain.  London.

 

The moment my feet hit the ground in London I knew I was home.  I knew that I had spent lifetimes there before and that whatever and wherever this city would bring me, I would be home.  I was home.  Everything made sense without any effort at all.  However I was waiting for the soul bit.  As an intuitive I was driven to London to find something, to understand something that perhaps I had been transitioning lifetimes through to grasp and here was my chance and I was missing it hiding in my chimney top bedroom taking hits from a bong seeking out the meaning of life as opposed to the meaning of my reason for being there.  None of which I really knew.  I just knew at the time there was nowhere else that I was supposed to be.

We do these things…we follow senses and sources.  We wind up in countries and places with people and faces because we know not where else to be.  Some are just steps; some are columns….all of which is determined along the way.  And so I was.  There.  With a lesson and no teacher.  Floating in comfortable ambivalence with a love of a city, an air, energy and not understanding why it was I chose to be thousands of miles across from my life to find my life.  The irony was exhausting.  Something was supposed to be but it wasn’t - yet.

And then I met Dave.

Introduction

Memory, like most things, is selective.  We pick and choose that which we want to matter the most.  A song, a prayer, a scent, a smile, a word.  We tie and bind it all into a package called our lives.  And there we have it.  A seemingly insignificant moment to another can become how you choose to now define yourself.  Just…like….that….

There are thousands of people that have stampeded across my journey.  For moments, for days and for lifetimes.  Some I could tell you about in descriptive intimate detail - every facet of their being, every molecule of my moments with them, others, I can’t even remember their name or what they looked like.  There are those that pass through us and those that become us. Those that although 20 years have passed you can still remember their taste and in a moment you are home again inside of them. 

It is difficult to think of yourself as the unnamed, the unremembered but that is how the story has to be.  We cannot all be everything to everyone.  There are those that will think of us in the darkest hours of the strangest nights and there are those that can hardly remember our face.  There are two sides to every coin.  Those that we remember, and those that have forgotten us.  The in betweens don’t matter as much.  They are bylined articles - not the novel and we are each to one another and we cannot be ourselves without them.

And so the story begins, the beginning of me understanding the balance of each. 

Vincent Square Chapter One: You Can't Go Home Again...

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My hand rubbed the cassette cover.  He had made me a mixed tape to bring on my journey.  I barely knew him.  I can’t even remember his name now but I believe to him, I was much more.  To me, he was a moment to occupy space and time before I left. 

Staring out the window as the highway silenced past me I was lost in thought.  Having no idea what I was doing, only knowing that I had to do it.  All that pulled me from my melancholy anticipation was her grabbing my hand.

“Hey.” I smiled looking over at her.  Her eyes welling with tears. My mother, in the front seat slightly turned her head to listen.  “Do you really have to go?” she whispered.  “I don’t know if I can handle things without you.  I’m sick to my stomach.”  She was so gentle, this dear friend of mine whom I had lived with at university and who I was leaving behind to ‘find myself’ somewhere in London.  We were two polar opposites.  She a preppy, virgin, wealthy Jew, me, a wild, non-virgin, Birkenstock wearing, dirt poor, Atheist.  Yet somehow, in each other we found acceptance, intrigue and comfort. “Delilah, you’ll be fine.  We’ll talk on the phone every day, I’ll write you letters constantly, and I’ll be back before you know it.  Promise.  I have to go.  I’m sort of dying here.  I need to see what else is out there.”  I try to sound confident but inside I had no idea what the fuck I was doing or why.  I’m just running.  20 years old and already running. “Promise.” I said again, squeezing her hand extra tight giving her the ‘I so mean this…not…smile’.  “Dad, how much longer til JFK?” “Less than an hour Weezy,” he said with a crack in his throat.  Above all else, I believe he was taking it the worst. I was his baby, and best friend and I was leaving him to muddle through without me. 

JFK was chaotic.  Hundreds of college students registering, waiting in line, lugging enormous suitcases, staring nervously around them, mimicking smiles to appear friendly as they embarked to study abroad and leave their families and friends for a year or more. 

I’ve never done well with goodbyes so my exit was quick.  I pointed around to the chaos and shooed my parents and Delilah away.  “I’ve got it from here – you have a long drive back…just go.”  As I placed my imaginary armor on, I was cracking…slowly.  Things became dizzy and I became overheated.  Hugs, my parents crying, Delilah holding on to me too tightly.  I was swallowing rocks to not break.  As they left the airport, and walked past the window I knew nothing else to do but stick up my middle finger and mouth the words “Fuck You” – mostly to make them laugh, but mainly because I was terrified and suddenly felt incredibly abandoned. 

Once out of site I crumbled uncontrollably.  Running to the bathroom I was hyperventilating with fear.  Caught between trying all that I could to pull myself together and to release the fear, I was a convulsing child.  Splashing my face in the sink and doing all that I could to find my center an arm touched mine.  “It’s ok.  I just did the same thing.  Here…” as I look up there is a pile of paper towels in front of me to which I dove into.  Mortified and grateful for a moment of kindness.  Deep breath.  Deep breath.  I stand up and stare at her in the mirror.  She stares back with an empathtic smile.  “Hey, I’m Maris – goodbye’s suck.  I know,” she says as she extends her hand to greet mine.  “Hi, I’m Willow.” I retort half looking her in the eyes, half staring at my Doc Martens.  “Yes, goodbyes, not my thing - sorry, I feel like an ass…” stopping my apology mid-air knowing it isn’t required.  She waves her hand in the air gesturing all is forgotten.  She’s vey pretty.  Milky skin with freckles, voluptuous figure and hazelnut hair.  Tall and statuesque, emitting a devilish and soulful, kind energy. “You smoke?” she asked.  “Jesus, yes…” I reply.  “Good, come with me.  I met a chic that has some weed.  We’ve got 4 hours to kill before the flight – we might as well make it worth our while.    

And so there Maris became a part of me, in the most vulnerable of my moments, she pulled me up and pushed me into all that I was afraid of but that would be the beginning of all that I was to become.

Silent Whispers

I woke up the morning of my birthday with my phone abuzz.  Greetings and well wishes from the loves around me.  It was supposed to be a rainy day and yet the sun followed me to work and I smiled contently with her warmth on my cheek.  I was determined to face this new year of my life with joy, unlike so many years past.  It was time to allow myself some peace.

The first few hours of my day passed quickly filled with gestures of kindness and laughter.  I even silently thanked the universe for allowing me this.  I thanked myself for allowing comfort.  I had worked so hard to get where I was.  I was about to embark on a new journey and I would see my friends later to celebrate.  There was much to be grateful for.

Ping went my phone.  I neglected it.  I was chatting with a coworker and I assumed it was yet another friend sending along a Happy Birthday greeting.  When I was finally alone, I looked down at it.  It was from him.  The text was simple.  All it said was ‘Happy Birthday’.  In an instant, my chest tightened.  My heart froze.  My hands started shaking, tears began to stream down my face and I could physically feel all of the color drain from my being. 

The immediate reaction I had was to respond.  I knew he was still sitting there; phone in hand, waiting to see if I would reply.  I wanted some connection to him while I still had his attention.  I could see him sitting in his living room, rereading the words he had written.  Questioning if he should’ve sent it.  Questioning if he should’ve said something more.  Wondering if he should’ve placed an X or an O at the end to attribute some affection.  His mind was like mine in that way.  And then I did the only thing I knew how to do.  Nothing. Act Don’t React, Tarah, I whispered quietly to myself.

I went outside and stared into the sky. It was his way of making his presence known.  Letting me know that he still existed.  It was his apology.  Of course he remembered my birthday.  Our birthdays were exactly a week apart and although the week prior I had agonized over reaching out to him to acknowledge his special day, though I had spent an hour with my therapist grappling over whether or not it was the right thing to do, though I had countless conversations with friends, I thought the better of it and again did the only thing I’ve come to do after all of this time.  Nothing.  All I could do was whisper to the Universe and hope that they found his way to his spirit.  I wasn’t a part of his life anymore.  What would it mean to him to hear from me?  Why would he care? So to save myself the torture of regret and insecurity, I refrained.

He hadn’t done the same.  But then again, he wasn’t in the same place that I was.  He was him after all; he could do whatever he wanted.  That luxury was something my soul couldn’t afford.  “I miss you.” I said to myself.  To my phone. To him.  To the air.  Because I did.  And for as wrong as it was, it was the truth.  In that moment, I missed every wrong thing about him. 

Appreciation

Here’s the thing kids.  If someone/something isn’t in your life, they/it aren’t supposed to be.  Holding on to memories of that, which isn’t, does you no good.  If you can’t beam with pride at those around you and you're babbling beauty about someone who isn't…..Release. 

I’m not quite sure where life is taking me, but lately I’ve been kind of ebbing in a place of purity. By which, I mean, what is, is.  The rest, fuck it.  If it’s around me and it’s real, I buy it.  Wondering, thinking, regretting, questioning – meh, not worthy of my thought.  This is all I have.  Now.  And I’m lucky because I have a lot of awesome around me.

Sure, I’m human and I remember moments – I remember laughter.  I remember when.  I remember and miss shit that hurts and makes no sense but then when isn’t then anymore and then isn’t now so why bother?

I’m not an easy person to love.  I’m a selfish pain in the ass but I’m loyal as fuck, which is why I presume the people around me stick around.  And now, they are all I care to think about.  The grass isn’t greener.  Its just grass.  I’d rather play on ground that I’ve tended to, than to leap sideways for the hope of something that might be better – cause I am slowly beginning to realize, there is no better.  I’ll take years of allegiance over moments of ambivalence any day.

And so that is what this is all about.  Don’t think about what you don’t have, cause you aren’t supposed to have it.  And you’re better off for not.  Trust me.   The Universe gives you exactly what you are supposed to have and has placed you exactly where you are supposed to be.  Look for more, try to manipulate it, and you will be without far greater. 

Just be, people.  Appreciate.  Stop.  Listen.  Breathe.  Say thank you to those that put up with all of your ambivalent bullshit because chances are, they would be far better served elsewhere but they happen to love you too much to look.  Say thanks, wave your hands in the air, shake off those that missed out on you and embrace those that haven’t.

Capiche?  

Thanks for listening. And here's a little ditty to enjoy...

The End....For Now...

It’s March 28, 2012.  This story is done.  

I had been sort of vibrating in a state for weeks with memories hovering over me, unwelcome.  Moments that I felt had long since shifted away from me were flooding back.  Drowning me in emotions I didn’t want to remember but that I could no longer contain.  All of this writing.  Resurfacing.  Plaguing.  My release.  I was finding myself pacing.  Edgy.  Wondering.  Thinking far too much.  Like the old days.  I was her again. Reactionary.

I broke down last weekend.  I typed his name into Google and clicked enter.  There he was, right there on Twitter.  Wow.  How modern of him playing in the arena he had always mocked me for.  He would be displeased to be so easily found, to have himself so public.  I quickly scan his Tweets and easily stalk on over to the girl I had heard he was seeing.   I’m not proud of it and it’s not something of my norm but curiosity got the best of me.  I needed to know.  A handful of Tweets down, she had posted a picture of them.  I stop.  I take a deep breath and click. 

I look at the picture.  I know that I know him.  The structure of his face looks familiar but there is nothing about it that resembles him.  I literally hear myself gasp.  It’s him. He must be sick.  Something is wrong with him.  No, Tarah, nothing is wrong with him.  You would’ve heard – you would’ve known.  His hair once chocolate is now all but grey.  His thick, full hair, now thin and closely trimmed to his head.  He has sagging skin on his neck.  My strong, larger than life Iceman now looks gaunt and slight.  He looks tired and although his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses he seems vacant.  His arm rests on her shoulder.  He used to hold me so tight, pulling me into him, often times with his hand holding on to both my arms as if to tell the camera and the world that I was his.  He is present in body, his spirit has shifted and I recognize nothing about him anymore.  That man that used to stop me in my tracks and make every part of my body tingle when he walked into a room was now just a shadow.  Had he been this way for years and I just hadn’t noticed?  Always seeing him as who he had been, not who he had become?  Perhaps.  I don’t know.  

He has a slight pursed grin.  A grey smile.  He used to have such a wild youthful, open mouthed smile when we were together and we were good.  He looks resigned.  As if this is the best it will ever be again and so here he will remain.  I know his energy.  I can read his every thought through one photograph.   She is insignificant and completely unaware of anything about him.  She smiles broadly.  I feel sorry for her, she has no idea.  She is perfect for him.  She is enough.  She will do.  She will keep him company, unchallenged company and he will no longer have to be alone.  I can see that.  I have no envy, only pity and sadness staring at the ghost of my past. I had seen enough.  I had seen all that I needed to see.  His future passes quickly across my intuition and I release it with my breath.  Now I know.

Here I have spent weeks writing, purging.  Remembering so much passion, remembering this man that I had loved so deeply, and how when it was good we were like children; all of our inside jokes, our nicknames, the magnetic energy that for years brought us back and forth to each other, the solace and guidance we found in our words to one another.  Through my writing I was falling in love with him again, that time, the chaos, the insanity.  I had been feeling every memory.  I had been feeling him.  And in one moment, one look at a picture, it vanished. 

For so long I have been tormented believing that he got the best of me, my best years.  My youth.  It was the exact opposite.  I had the best of him. I had his energy, his passion, his soul, now buried so deeply and irretrievable within his guilt it suffocated the air around him.  I had released all of mine.  His, he carried everywhere.  His totem. Whatever I have carried all of this time was gone with that realization.  The questioning, the regretting, the self-loathing.  Gone.  

In truth, it was done in July of 2010 when we sat on the beach and he asked me to marry him and I gave him no reply.  I knew then that I could never go back.  I knew his words were meaningless and that he only wanted to win.  He never really knew what he wanted and I knew it would only be a matter of time before he tried to unravel himself from his proposal. The years of confusion and chaos had done nothing but push me further and further from any semblance of passion for him and although I had wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with him, he had destroyed too much for me to believe in it.    

I knew when I last saw him in New York and he said to me, “You’ll never look at me the way you used again, will you?” that I never would.  In my memory I could, through my writing I could, but in the now, I couldn’t as much as I desperately wanted to.  And he saw that in my eyes.  And in some way that broke him. Just as he had broken me a thousand times before.  I have always believed that I was the broken one.  Unfixable.  It somehow made it easier on me that way.  But I’m not.  And although so many parts of me feel that in the end he left me - that he gave up, I realize now that it’s me who despite my promise, had left him many, many years before.  It just took awhile for my soul to catch up to that realization.  

That picture of him will forever be emblazed in my mind now.  No longer pictures in my mind of what was, but what now is.  His emptiness.  There is no want in me for that, or to try to bring it back to life, to try to save him from himself again.  I prefer to save myself now. It is gone. He is gone.  Whoever I loved is no longer inside of him.  It’s as if his life has leapt forward 20 years and mine had stood still and now I have all of the hope in the world to get back to it again. I am here again. 

To finish the story and to write out the rest of the years had been my intent, but I have no use for it anymore.  It is removed from me and I can no longer remember him in that light.  That picture is all I see and that picture has erased all memory from me. Perhaps in time and perhaps in a way that no longer is my memory but a fictional story based on some of it.  Who knows? Our story has never really had an ending and I find some comfort in just leaving it as an ellipsis....For now, I would like to revel in my freedom for a bit.  I’ve been a prisoner of this story for a long time.  

And so it ends for now like this…It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.  And it is over.  Thank you Google for setting me free. 

The End.

Synopsis

It’s important for me to write a bit about these chapters.  Explain them.  I’ve been receiving lots of questions and I’ve even been questioning myself so here goes some explaining.

First and foremost, why am I doing this?  Well, for two reasons.  1.  Because if you are an outsider (and even an insider), it truly is a good story.  A fucked up story but a good one none the less.  2.  It’s a release for me.  This story was in fact my life.  This story has made me who I am. It is still making me who I am as I continually learn from it. So I consider this a new form of therapy.  I feel that another story can’t welcome itself in until I finally let this one out.  It’s coveted me for far too long.  The difficulty is in that I’ve begun a process that is resurfacing significant emotions for me – none of which I have any pride in – and it’s been as of late, emotionally spiraling to remember it all.  But, it’s a process, not an event and so my current state is part of the process I’ve grown accustomed to accepting.  I’ve been trained well by John. 

People have asked me if it’s all true - (a lot of inquiries re: the elevator scene).  Yes, it’s all true.  However, it’s my version of the story and all that I remember and/or the bits I care to tell.  He has his own.  Timelines etc. and sequences of events may be skewed as I extract the most poignant bits that express it and ‘us’ most effectively.  What you have to understand is that this story transcended the better part of a decade so there’s a lot to tell.  The first 3 years is my current focus now, ‘Book 1’ so to speak. 

There is a lot that I won’t tell.  Some secrets are best left in closets.  And although 50 Shades of Mommy Porn is the current trend, I can’t quite go that route yet.  Descriptive details of my intimate life are sacred to me and likely will remain that way. 

Why have I chosen to change every name except my own?  Because it’s my story and right now it doesn’t feel natural to have my memory speak to me as someone else.  I’ve changed everyone else’s name because it’s been easier for me that way - except John.  His name is real as well.  I couldn't see him as any other way. There are so many more people to this story – will I be able to add them all in?  Perhaps.  ‘He’ will never have a name.  Those in my personal life know it.  Those who aren’t, never will. 

What I’m struggling with, as this is a new form of writing for me is the detail.  These ‘Chapters’ as I’m calling them are just brief synopses.  I’m trying to get the memories down and if I’m so compelled and if it evolves into something worth doing anything with, I will explain things with much greater detail.  For now, I’m keeping things high and tight however it frustrates me to not explain things at length, as I would like.  I’m just sort of writing at mock speed in an unconscious fury to release it from myself so I can’t go deeper.  Yet.

Most importantly, the detail of Quinn and the magnitude of his presence I’ve yet to be able to articulate.  He was, and still remains the hero of this story, of my story, of my life.  I want him to be yours as well.  He deserves that.  You will start to see him appear more and more.  I hope I can do him justice. 

I’ve done a lot of insane things in my life.  This to me, is by far the craziest.  Literally, through my writing I am standing raw and naked in front of my friends, family, and strangers.  It’s not easy.  It’s frightening.  But, if it gets me to the other side of the tunnel I’ve been standing in then it’s all worth it, right? 

I may just suddenly stop one day and if I do, that just means that the story is done for me.  I’ve said enough, something else has made it’s way in and that its time for me to face the sunlight again.  Until then, as always, thanks for listening. 

Much gratitude.