—Frank O’Hara
That was back
then, though,
when I had
what seemed
limitless alter
native ideas
always at
the ready.
extensive poetic juxtapositions by and about del ray cross (delraycross at gmail)
Diminutive Derivative
I
suppose one way to put it might be
that
I’m quite financially unsolvable.
Unresolvable? Unresolved?
I used
to
invest, almost in an unbeknownst
fashion,
we called it 401(k). Or that
might
have been a brand for a pair
of
pants that, when I was much more
financially
solvable, I used to wear on
occasion. I’m a hard fit, my legs a tad
too
short for most standardized fits. But
at
least I’m in the States rather than in
Europe,
where everyone is apparently
a
teeny weenie skinny-Minnie. I could
take
a normal too-long pair up a few inches,
it’s
true. I had an internship during the
year
I earned my last degree in which
I
taught young students interested in
the
dramatic arts how to sew, then we
built
costumes at shop before each produced play.
Oh, and then
I managed the house during each
theatrical performance, also an internship. And
in the various theatres we had on my grad
school
campus that year there were no less
than
10 full-fledge theatrical productions.
Like
most years of my life, that was quite a
busy year, and (also, like a lot of my years)
income was incredibly sparse, despite three
internships (the third was assisting a campus drug
and alcohol rehab counselor), and on top of all
of that, I gave 20-30 hours per week working
at the local Big Lots. So I’m a bit short, but
if push cames to shove, I have the wherewithal
to take a pair of jeans or slacks up to my twenty-nine
inches (or so) inseam, should there not be any of
what I suppose are abnormal sizes available.
So, I have a twenty-nine inches (or so) inseam
and
it’s usually hard to find anything less than
a 30 inseam on store shelves. Some jeans have sizes
with inseams shorter than 30, like Levi’s, which I
know, because I grew up wearing 501s. Ah, no
wonder
the subject got off course when I
mentioned
I once had a 501(k). Not being
employed
at the moment, and having long
ago gotten rid of my 401(k) money (it went
during the decade of destitution that I am still
riding out just as penniless as ever), not only do I
owe
taxes (at least to the state of California
now)
with no income in over a year and a half at
present,
but I owe various small credit cards that I had
used
to build up my credit ever since I could afford
to
when card companies began to give me a little credit
once again after the financial swamp I found myself in
a few years back. This is a game that isn’t fun, so let’s
change the subject. I’m a non-solvent human looking for a job,
having
just days ago turned 59 years old. Which
sounds
like
a practically unsolvable logic problem, especially if I
were
to continue to add on pieces and parts of my
issues
at hand. My ongoing problems. The downright
tragedies that have kept me from my betrothed. My
betrothed. I do have one of those, and I’m quite rightly
giddy about the notion. One obstacle that keeps us apart
physically is that he resides in the Southern Hemisphere
while I live in the northern half of the planet. and while we’ve
taken
care of the papework to get him here we’ve been unable
to
pay for said paperwork, the visa that would have him here
and ready to marry me within 90 days upon his arrival (some
twelve or so months, estimated, upon turning in the paperwork
and fee). Also, even though we talk every day, often several times
live, and chat intermittently otherwise, in order to procure this visa
so that he can come here, I was required to actually and physically
visit with him in real life before we could even think about turning
in the paperwork. So that I have done, saving up to head to the
Southern half of the planet a year ago March, which was quite an
expense, lovely as it was to finally spend time with him in the same
physical space for a couple of weeks. It’s been six and a half years that
we have been thusly betrothed, which is quite a long long-distance
relationship, and that is a notion that I used to make fun of, say,
when friends of mine got such distanced partnerships of romantic
and/or committed and/or sexual natures (those seem to be
the top three characteristics if one plays a part in such a thing.
I mean, sure, you can have one, you can have a couple of these, but to
find someone in which you are able to work out all three seems to me
the very ideal, something that lets you know it might really be worth
working on, something to keep going, to which you commit. And I’ve
not exactly been wise with commitments, but I’ve had a lot of them.
They have had durations from three months to 10 years or so, all
told, which means I have what they call experience. Somewhat
similarly, if one were to look at my resume, the one I use to gain
employment, one would see that I have a nice and lengthy set of
experiences in a career that, while I happenstanced into rather
unexpectedy, it is one with which I have been quite happy. One
would
think that I might, considering a pretty decent amount of
experience with each, be able to procure both reliable and purposeful
employment
alongside a lovely personal relationship, a family plus career
situation in which one could contentedly spend a lifetime. But as if this
writing, and several years of working quite intensely to get at least a good
part of what I once felt I had going or me, that is not my place, as I
was dealt a ridiculously cowardly break-up from someone with whom I’d
lived and loved, as boyfriend, partner, romantic and otherwise. Yes,
this supposedly aware individual (me) was in love, in a nicely intimate
commitment, for ten years, until this guy I thought I knew extremely well
hoodwinked me into dealing with his all but actual death, the death of
a longstanding partner. One day, with no warning, some 11 years or so,
after a fated first encounter, he was gone. As, with some research, I
determined he left to marry someone for whon he’d apparently
been hot with, whom he had somehow managed to surreptitiously
spend enough time with during around 80% of the duration of time
that we were together in a supposed committed relationship, only to skip
town without a word, never one word, leaving me with the place that was
ours along with most of his belongings, our belongings, to be with
this other man, and no word to me at all.
This all sounds pretty normal, I suppose, perhaps even down to the extreme
cowardice he displayed by leaving me to grieve like he had literally died,
was dead, is dead, to me. It is a death that I didn’t even get to have in
any literal way, he just left without a word before or since. I had to
spend
valuable (and very ill, thanks to this loss) time dealing with the fact that
not
only was our relationship fraudulent, transpiring through what at the time
seemed
and still feels like were the best years of my life, just to experience
his unexpected disappeaarance in that horrifying way. In other words, I became
a widow. He is my dead former spouse. But the voices of dying spouses live on
in the ears and minds of those they’ve left behind. Don’t they?
This has been a meandering stack of information, one in which I have now
quite vulnerably relayed to you that, at 59 years of age, that is, at an age
when most begin to at least think in earnest of how they will wind down,
should they have such a luxury, I unfortunately, ever since this incident, have a
need, rather, to wind up. And of getting the love I currently have who lives
on the other side of the world from there to me. Or to work with him to
find a way to find for us a reasonably and contentedly time together in a
proximal life that is real, or in a way that is a better alternative
to having a couple of videoconferences and intermittent texts
spread throughout the day. To get the chance for regular and real
touch, living as the best way we can, with real intimacy, in the most
meaningful ways. Rather than having only two weeks out of six and a half
years in each other’s company, we may then have all or most of a full year
in each other’s company. Again, I am writing this as a means of relaying, and
also of understanding what I need by articulating myself. I do this, perhaps
among other reasons, as means for me to understand myself, helping me gather
motivation and then focus in order move forward in appropriate ways. All this by
casually letting you in on some of the things I find important in my story
(why it’s important I do this, and whether this amounts to harrassment, by
using you, should you, indeed exist, we can talk about some other time, but it
truly is a luxury, a benefit that I am able to do so). That’s what is on my mind
and why I have said what I say here on this rather long virtual page. So I am
appreciative. Of being able to do exactly this. Of you being there (whether or
not you actually are). And of using this as a means, perhaps as one might a
diary or antherapist or writing a poem, to solidify a truth that leads to
implementation of important actions that require establishing or
editing goals. For this, I am so apreciative of you. Perhaps knowing
a few things about me might be a good thing for you, I cannot say.
But passing along to you these tidbits of me certainly benefits
me. It helps me best prepare for a hopeful and adventurous future and
plays an integral part instilling within me (or helping me adjust) the goals that
are necessary to achieve and the motivation to do my part to make them
happen. That’s a lot of help. So please accept my most humble appreciation
of your participation in what has been a vulnerable yet helpful exercise.