Grand Maritoll
08-04-2006, 05:11
Act II has been posted.
There seems to be a rash of "OMG I need love advice!" threads, so I thought I'd contribute my story. It's probably very confusing at first, but I think it flows much more logically as it progresses.
Flame me, mock me, advise me, console me, reply or not. It doesn't matter to me. What I am looking for is someone to listen to what I have to say. I won't even be offended if you don't read all of it- it's a series of connected anecdotes. And if you just want the gist, read the last three paragraphs of Act I.
And so, onward!
Act I
The first time I really noticed her was within a few days of the start of school. Cantrell (the teacher) had us write journals/essays, and Her writing captivated me. I was genuinely impressed. And so came the first motivational drive towards self-improvement. I wanted to write like Her. And I remember wanting to impress her with my writing… I always want to impress people with my writing, even these personal journals. It’s kind of a tragic flaw- I have a sense that it will be- in fact, is, on some levels, my undoing, as tragic flaws are wont to be. For I will probably share these writings, and not just with one individual. But for now, I can take some comfort in knowing that I myself am always free to look back through them, for support, continuity, recollection, chronicling, and all the rest. Interesting. I have fallen in love with Her writing on numerous occasions, and so it seems, (as in it seems to be the reason) I use writing when thinking of her (in other words, [writing pun, LoL!] I have been writing a lot lately).
Lord, allow me to reflect on the positive qualities of love without obsessing over that which is not You, and allow me to reflect on the negative qualities of love without despairing about that which is Your work for my soul.
Now, to continue to reflect… things have progressed. Time, as it is wont to do, has moved onward. Auditions for Clue went well on my end, and they went wonderfully on Her end. She wrote a wonderful monologue and her impromptu was excellent. We both got the roles we desired. I fell in love with her writing again, and I remember sitting in the seats of the auditorium admiring her- but in a much lighter way than I would in days to come.
As Clue progressed, She was put in charge of making visual advertisements (i.e. posters) because of her artistic abilities. Her artwork is fantastic! I remember how impressed the class (including Cantrell) was when she brought it in to show. Amazing! The only fault was that the posters were too large for mass production- then again, that wasn’t really a fault, because it made them all the more beautiful and magnificent. And, when Cantrell said they were too large, she produced appropriately sized versions in a day or two, which were then mass-produced and distributed- fun times! Did I mention she is an excellent artist? The too-large posters? They were featured, hanging down in glory from the 2nd story boardwalk of the Hub. There was a small flaw in the Colonial Mustard drawing- or so she said- but I didn’t think it was a problem at all. She’s good with sharpies. I remember being ecstatic to see my own image as Colonial Mustard, viewed through Her mind.
She helped with set construction as well. She was assigned the task of going to the paint store (the very generous Pittsburgh Paints, that is), and I am selected, by my father, to drive her- probably partially due to the fact that my father knows her mother, partially due to the fact that I am a safe driver whom he trusts, and partially due to the fact that I am only suited for a few tasks when it comes to set construction. It was around this time that I began to realize that I love Her- I remember being very glad to have a small adventure with her. I drove, and she rode, to the store. We had to look for light green paint and dark green, as well as reds, some blue, and various tans. We were equipped with the Clue gameboard for color reference, (which I accidentally left there, I think) and as we got the receipt paid, I read Get Fuzzy comics on the wall, and noticed an advertisement for Clue hanging down from the counter. We got the paint, and headed towards home base, the school, triumphantly. Nothing particularly astonishing happened at the paint store, but it was one of only two occasions I can remember being alone together with Her… and since this occasion occurred before the train of fate had rolled far down the tracks towards ruin; it was the happier of the two. And it was around this time that I began to realize that I didn’t just like her a lot, I love her. No past tense about it- and although the wounds are slowly healing, I do not know what scarring will remain. Suffice to say, I am a very different person than I was one year ago, and I never will be that old person again.
After set construction, I almost went to dinner with Ryan, Sergio, and Her. You see, I was supposed to give Her her ride home after set. Ryan and Sergio invited her to the Chinese Super-buffet, things fell through somewhere and somehow… she was able to go, then she wasn’t. I’m not sure how it all ended. I can’t even remember if she went and I, for some reason, did not, or if she didn’t go- I seem to that I left thinking she couldn’t go and then she could but it was too late for me, or I gave it up, or something melodramatic like that. But this, of all my recollections, is the one I trust the least.
It was around this time that I first confided in someone else about my feelings (having just recently admitted their scope to myself). The conversation was short, and very helpful to the whole tenor of my mind. I invited (semi-commanded, as only very good friends can do without being insulting) him to walk with me after school and talk about what was on my mind. I told him I was in love with his old freshman mentoree, and he said something like “yeah, that’s understandable.” Not in the sense that he was in love with her too, mind you, but in the sense that he could see where I was coming from. We talked a bit more, and the consensus was that I should ask her out. But I wasn’t ready yet. Not only did I have the normal apprehensions, anxieties and second-thoughts, but I also was in a crisis of discernment. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a Catholic priest, which means the big “c” word, Celibacy. Of course, that presented a direct conflict, and so I had to seriously re-evaluate a choice that I never had reason to seriously re-evaluate before- probably the best thing that’s happened to me thus for, when my life is viewed through the lens of self-improvement.
There is one memory, which was glorious and the validity of which I do not doubt; which gave me sustaining albeit unfounded, hope for a whole month. And because it comforted me for such a time (and still comforts me, in some strange way, even today), I cherish that memory. But it is a small one.
It is the memory of the time during Clue rehearsal when She was talking about her own personality- and she concluded with, “that’s probably why I can never get a boyfriend”- which meant that she was available and looking. Oh, how that gave me hope. I should have asked her then, but I was lost in the moment, lost in her, too busy enjoying it all to do anything else… as is often the case around her.
Waiting had a cost. Gradually, I noticed Her hanging around Him. To be honest, it pains me more to censor His name than Hers. Probably because it seems somewhat sacrilegious (God is always the capital He) and also because this is not his fault in the slightest- it may or may not be mine, (that is something I am trying to figure out) but either way, it certainly isn’t His. And yet, He plays the role of unwitting antagonist in this tale of mine. Let us look back, one last time, to the happy period…
During Clue, she played her role well; it was a good part for her. After all, she always wanted a physicist husband. But more of interest were the times in Clue and Clue rehearsal when we weren’t acting- well, not acting on stage, at least. All life is an act, of course. As Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage”. But there are times when honesty and sincerity shine through. Such, I do hope, was the character of the scene I shall now describe. She walked in a circle around us as we lay on the floor of the darkened stage- we were worn out from many hours of practice, and she was full of energy and light as always. He was the other one lying down as we talked, and She traced an infinity symbol over and over as she paced. We discussed some philosophy (my favorite subject), and although nothing especially significant happened (except, possibly, the significance of Infinity…), I shall never forget it. The memory of lying in bliss, discussing philosophy with Her (He, no discredit intended to him, is a quiet man and did not much contribute to the conversation) even now brings me great joy.
And so comes the dark turning. I began to suspect, I noticed them always sitting together in class. And I would always make every undetectable effort to sit near Her. My suspicions turned to fear. I continued to confide in my confidant (who else are you to confide in, when you cannot confide in yourself without bias?), and gradually became more certain. My fear, (skipping, the famous progression of anger and hate by force of will and discipline) turned into suffering. The main turning point was during the fall play… the way they stuck together at intermission, it was obvious that they were dating. But, as I told my confidant at the time, I did not consider my own observation to be a credible source (I literally could not believe my eyes). I knew then and I know now that fear can inflate fear, and hope can inflate hope, leading to false senses of reality. But to my chagrin, he noticed the same thing.
All uncertainty and hope dissolved suddenly one day in Symphonic Band, when someone mentioned in a gossipy fashion Her as His girlfriend. Trying to act nonchalant with the desperation of a criminal in direct danger of being caught, I asked if she meant it in a jocular, metaphorical sense, or in a more literal sense (I used much more colloquial language at the time, of course). She said that they were definitely dating, and the slight segue in the conversation ended along with the vague optimism that I had kept a tenuous hold on for a number of weeks. I realized the only woman I have ever loved could never know I love her, unless circumstances beyond my control changed drastically.
Steeling myself for the occasion when I would announce my cares for her suddenly seemed like it had been a bad choice. Bridges are built to bend- any engineer will tell you that. If a bridge does not bend, when it breaks, it will snap into many pieces and be impossible to repair. A flexible bridge, on the other hand, bows so the strain is visible. Of course, in a human, this is a sign of weakness, this getting nervous and fidgeting under the strain. Not an acceptable thing. But a flexible bridge will outlast a rigid one. And when a flexible bridge breaks, it can be repaired.
They say no man is an island, but it is my view that people are islands, connected by bridges. The bridge I built between myself and Her was designed to take the potential shock of rejection without flinching. It was one of the most rigid mental structures I have ever built. It was made to bear the weight of my world as I rolled it from an island built for one to an island big enough for two. As part of my mental preparation, I had rolled my world halfway across the span, waiting for either confirmation or rejection to decide where it would go from there. It turned out to be a precarious position, because when it was revealed that my feelings were to be neither substantiated nor denied, but left to languish away, unnoticed, unheard… the bridge shattered into a thousand shards, and my world plummeted into the Sea.
Act II
Ever since I learned that They were dating, I have clung, in my insanity, to the hope that perhaps the relationship will end after a short time, as high school relationships so often do. Before I found out, I had established the habit of hanging out with Her and Him in the lobby during Ensemble class, a habit which formed when we were given our monologue assignments. We would all hang around one of the corners of the lobby, memorizing our monologues and testing each other’s knowledge of our monologues among small talk on various subjects. I was always looking for subtle ways to win Her affection (looking back, I am able to say without reserve or guilt that I do not believe I crossed any lines), and one of my favorite things to do was to show my knowledge around her. For example, when another actor asked about a peculiar phrase in their monologue- “My black English will go unheeded”- I did not hesitate to share my view, that it was a Victorian way of saying “my warnings will be ignored”. Being Herself something of a linguist, she agreed and said that that was probably a good interpretation. (Looking back, that interpretation might not have been correct, depending on whether the piece was contemporary or Victorian. If it were a contemporary piece, the phrase “black English” may have meant “Ebonics”).
Another time I tried to impress her with my knowledge was when we were hanging out just outside the lobby during a light rain, and we talked about everything from the reasons that the leaves change color to dimensions to rainfall. During that conversation, it was her turn to teach me a thing or two, which impressed me very much (most of the science teachers only tell me what I already know, and so I did not expect to learn from a fellow student) and made me love her even more.
The best of all the times in the lobby started with me staring at the carpet, primarily because I am careful to avoid staring at her (I usually read the Summa Theologiae when I hung out with them).
She asked me why I was staring at the carpet, and I said I was looking for the pattern- very true. I always look for the pattern in tiles, wallpapers, carpets, etc. But the carpet of the Lobby was one pattern that I could never figure out. The carpet was laid out in 2x2 foot squares of fabric. The squares could only be distinguished because where one square met another was the only place where the pattern ended abruptly and did not flow. Normally, when I had found the squares, I could match where one section of the pattern was identical with another part of the pattern and from that matching, figure out which square matched which other square and then what the original pattern had looked like. But these squares were an exception. No two squares were alike. The patterns repeated, but not in an organized manner. Some sections were oriented differently, and they all were cut off by the end of the square at different points. You could see the continuation of one of the pattern segments (what it would have looked like if the pattern hadn’t ended) in another square, where the pattern continued for a few more inches (although it may have been oriented differently). This mismatching of patterns lead me to believe that the pattern did not repeat in the same way the squares repeated… since the squares were two feet by two feet, the pattern itself may have been three meters by three meters, or some other such mismatched unit of measure. Then, when the tiles were cut, they were laid in a fairly random order and with random orientation, suggesting that squares had been assembled together to form the carpet when the whole array was already in the lobby, instead of at the factory. All of these observations I shared with her, pointing out the things I was describing as I went along. When I had finished, she said “you’d make a good scientist”…
Hanging out in the lobby with Them was one of the most positive times of my life. I was able to love Her from a safe distance, without infringing on His or Her rights. The problem with it was that it fueled me along in my love-which-should-not-have-been (I realized early on that if I had known that they were dating at the beginning, I probably would not have fallen in love with her out of respect for both of them [of course, they weren’t dating at the beginning]). The action of basking in my love for Her was innocent enough, but it led to brooding, obsession, and a general collapse of my ability to function.
For a long time, I had been using my English class to write essays and think about things other than the material the teacher was going over. I know that my father would be enraged to hear this, but I felt that there was no wrongdoing in my exchanging the predetermined curriculum for an accelerated version. I paid enough attention in class to maintain a B/C average, but most of my time in English was spent writing personal essays and thoughts. It was in this setting ignoring the teacher and writing on loose sheets of paper, that I began to brood about her instead of simply admiring Her. At first, my essays involving Her were very secret, never even directly discussing love, let alone mentioning Her.
As I found myself thinking of Her more and more often throughout the day and mental pressure built, I decided it would be a good idea to confide in my father. My friend-confidant certainly had more insight to the actual situation, but he was not able to offer advice based on the experience of years as my father was. As we hiked through the wilderness on a camping trip, I whispered to my father that I would like to have a personal chat with him, out of earshot from the rest of the group. We fell back in line, and I told my father my situation (all of it, from the first meeting to the paint store up to what was then the present). He revealed some of his knowledge of the general situation to me (he knew Her mother before I met Her). It did, as I had hoped it would, provide some mental release, but he could not tell me what to do aside from what I was already doing- prayerful consideration and patient thought.
Near the end of January, I had an interesting experience which prolonged my love/insanity/obsession (I am uncertain of what to call it anymore…). One of my friends (we’ll call him “Joe”) had gotten wind of the fact that I liked someone and, because he was totally unaware of the situation, had been trying to get me to tell him who it was for about a week. The Choir went on a trip to Cleveland, and both Joe and Her were there, as well as myself. As Joe and I ate lunch together at the food court, She stopped by and we chatted for a bit. Just after she left, Joe said, “it’s her, isn’t it?” I have always been good at hiding my expressions, and so I was surprised and somewhat worried: had I been showing more than I thought I was? I asked, “is it that obvious?” and he said, “not on your end”. The impact of those four words was great. Just to be sure (Joe has a habit of sarcastic kidding), I later asked him if he was being totally sincere when he said that, or if it was a sort of a cruel joke. He said that he was totally honest about it; he wouldn’t torture me like that. Considering I had just helped him through some relationship issues of his own, I was inclined to agree with him.
At this point, the spring musical, Seussical, was getting near and there was practice basically every day. Every single person mentioned in this memoir was involved in Seussical, thus making Seussical- related activities the perfect staging ground for dramatic action in this narrative. If I had been aware of that fact when it was time for auditions for Seussical… well, I probably would have gone through with the whole ordeal anyways. We learn from failure, not from success.
The second-biggest failure that relates to this memoir involved the personal website database known as Xanga. It was there that I broke down and invited everyone I knew to find out what had been bothering me for almost half a year. And I quote:
“For those of you who don't know, I am very much in love.
The problem is, I am very much in love with someone who is dating someone else.”
The ramifications were… interesting. Apparently I left the window with my Xanga open and my father “Happened” to read it (Big Brother is watching you). Which began a long conversation, during which I submitted a proposal that I had been considering for a while: I would tell my feelings to Him. Telling Her would be a stupid mistake, making Him furious and probably leaving Her angry at me for putting her in an uncomfortable situation, but I reasoned that I could tell Him, in a man-to-man talk, so that he would be aware of the situation. Perhaps I could talk through things with him, I thought. After a two-hour conversation, he agreed, I should go through with it, if I sincerely thought it would help to cure me. He also suggested that I remove the dramatic posts from my Xanga, but I wasn’t ready for that just yet.
My conversation with my father ended when the phone rang. It was my older brother, who had heard from His older brother that I wanted to talk to Him concerning Her- for I had first tried to make contact with Him the evening before, just after posting the Xanga entry. I had told Him that I wanted to talk to him face-to-face about something important, and when asked, I had told him that it was about his girlfriend. Anyways, the conversation that I had with my brother was just as intense as the one that I had just finished having with my father. At first, he thought that telling Him about my feelings was a bad move, but as we discussed the whole situation, we eventually concluded that it was the right thing to do- He had a right to know, to be warned (so did She, but to tell her would be disastrous).
I had updated my Xanga on a Friday, and before the weekend was over (I planned to talk with Him after Seussical practice on Monday), I had also talked through the situation with the pastor at my church. That talk was mostly centered around what my love of Her meant regarding my calling to the priesthood, and he offered me some very good advice: you can say “no” to God. If you do say “no”, he will provide you with a different way in which you can say “yes!” to him. Of course it is always best to say “yes!” to God, but God will not abandon you if you find yourself saying “no”. My pastor was the only one who thought that telling Him the situation would be a bad idea, that it would cause only pain and that there was no reason for it. Perhaps he was right, perhaps not. Either way, I feel much more guilty about the Xanga fiasco than I feel about my desire to tell Him.
Throughout the school day, I was bombarded with questions- who is it? Do I know her? Who is it? What grade is she in? Who is it?- everyone wanted to know. It made me feel terrible, and I realized that the Xanga entry was just too much. I privatized it (made it so that only I could see it) as soon as I got home.
During play practice on that day, when we were in the relative privacy of the back of the auditorium, He suggested that we talk then about what needed to be said. I had expected more time to mentally prepare, so I was somewhat hesitant. Sensing my hesitation, he told me “you should never be afraid to say what’s on your mind”. And so I did. I told him I was in love with his girlfriend but (and it was the most hastily added “but” I am aware of ever using) I had absolutely no interest in threatening their relationship. I was resigned to keep it to myself for as long as their relationship lasted. I wanted to say more, but looking back, it is probably best that he went away quietly just after I finished saying that, because neither of us were in a sane state of mind, and any conversation would have likely turned sour very quickly.
He never avoided me, I was as aware of that then as I am now. He did not avoid me, but he did not make himself open to talk with me, either. Our relationship carried on as it had for as long as we have known each other- polite small talk, nothing serious. I wanted to sit and talk things through with him just as I had my first confidant, my father, Joe, my brother, and my pastor, but it was his move. If he did not wish to talk things through with me, it was his right. I was a guest in the house of his personal life. I had knocked on the door politely, but since I was carrying a bomb that would, in all likelihood, damage his house and injure him deeply if he let me in, it was (and is) certainly his right to choose to not discuss the matter with me.
The Xanga fiasco had (what I guiltily admit to be) the desired effect. She heard about it. That is really all I wanted from it, but it was probably going further than I had a right to, when combined with telling Him at the same time. But there was one time when I went even further, several weeks after that whole ordeal.
There seems to be a rash of "OMG I need love advice!" threads, so I thought I'd contribute my story. It's probably very confusing at first, but I think it flows much more logically as it progresses.
Flame me, mock me, advise me, console me, reply or not. It doesn't matter to me. What I am looking for is someone to listen to what I have to say. I won't even be offended if you don't read all of it- it's a series of connected anecdotes. And if you just want the gist, read the last three paragraphs of Act I.
And so, onward!
Act I
The first time I really noticed her was within a few days of the start of school. Cantrell (the teacher) had us write journals/essays, and Her writing captivated me. I was genuinely impressed. And so came the first motivational drive towards self-improvement. I wanted to write like Her. And I remember wanting to impress her with my writing… I always want to impress people with my writing, even these personal journals. It’s kind of a tragic flaw- I have a sense that it will be- in fact, is, on some levels, my undoing, as tragic flaws are wont to be. For I will probably share these writings, and not just with one individual. But for now, I can take some comfort in knowing that I myself am always free to look back through them, for support, continuity, recollection, chronicling, and all the rest. Interesting. I have fallen in love with Her writing on numerous occasions, and so it seems, (as in it seems to be the reason) I use writing when thinking of her (in other words, [writing pun, LoL!] I have been writing a lot lately).
Lord, allow me to reflect on the positive qualities of love without obsessing over that which is not You, and allow me to reflect on the negative qualities of love without despairing about that which is Your work for my soul.
Now, to continue to reflect… things have progressed. Time, as it is wont to do, has moved onward. Auditions for Clue went well on my end, and they went wonderfully on Her end. She wrote a wonderful monologue and her impromptu was excellent. We both got the roles we desired. I fell in love with her writing again, and I remember sitting in the seats of the auditorium admiring her- but in a much lighter way than I would in days to come.
As Clue progressed, She was put in charge of making visual advertisements (i.e. posters) because of her artistic abilities. Her artwork is fantastic! I remember how impressed the class (including Cantrell) was when she brought it in to show. Amazing! The only fault was that the posters were too large for mass production- then again, that wasn’t really a fault, because it made them all the more beautiful and magnificent. And, when Cantrell said they were too large, she produced appropriately sized versions in a day or two, which were then mass-produced and distributed- fun times! Did I mention she is an excellent artist? The too-large posters? They were featured, hanging down in glory from the 2nd story boardwalk of the Hub. There was a small flaw in the Colonial Mustard drawing- or so she said- but I didn’t think it was a problem at all. She’s good with sharpies. I remember being ecstatic to see my own image as Colonial Mustard, viewed through Her mind.
She helped with set construction as well. She was assigned the task of going to the paint store (the very generous Pittsburgh Paints, that is), and I am selected, by my father, to drive her- probably partially due to the fact that my father knows her mother, partially due to the fact that I am a safe driver whom he trusts, and partially due to the fact that I am only suited for a few tasks when it comes to set construction. It was around this time that I began to realize that I love Her- I remember being very glad to have a small adventure with her. I drove, and she rode, to the store. We had to look for light green paint and dark green, as well as reds, some blue, and various tans. We were equipped with the Clue gameboard for color reference, (which I accidentally left there, I think) and as we got the receipt paid, I read Get Fuzzy comics on the wall, and noticed an advertisement for Clue hanging down from the counter. We got the paint, and headed towards home base, the school, triumphantly. Nothing particularly astonishing happened at the paint store, but it was one of only two occasions I can remember being alone together with Her… and since this occasion occurred before the train of fate had rolled far down the tracks towards ruin; it was the happier of the two. And it was around this time that I began to realize that I didn’t just like her a lot, I love her. No past tense about it- and although the wounds are slowly healing, I do not know what scarring will remain. Suffice to say, I am a very different person than I was one year ago, and I never will be that old person again.
After set construction, I almost went to dinner with Ryan, Sergio, and Her. You see, I was supposed to give Her her ride home after set. Ryan and Sergio invited her to the Chinese Super-buffet, things fell through somewhere and somehow… she was able to go, then she wasn’t. I’m not sure how it all ended. I can’t even remember if she went and I, for some reason, did not, or if she didn’t go- I seem to that I left thinking she couldn’t go and then she could but it was too late for me, or I gave it up, or something melodramatic like that. But this, of all my recollections, is the one I trust the least.
It was around this time that I first confided in someone else about my feelings (having just recently admitted their scope to myself). The conversation was short, and very helpful to the whole tenor of my mind. I invited (semi-commanded, as only very good friends can do without being insulting) him to walk with me after school and talk about what was on my mind. I told him I was in love with his old freshman mentoree, and he said something like “yeah, that’s understandable.” Not in the sense that he was in love with her too, mind you, but in the sense that he could see where I was coming from. We talked a bit more, and the consensus was that I should ask her out. But I wasn’t ready yet. Not only did I have the normal apprehensions, anxieties and second-thoughts, but I also was in a crisis of discernment. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a Catholic priest, which means the big “c” word, Celibacy. Of course, that presented a direct conflict, and so I had to seriously re-evaluate a choice that I never had reason to seriously re-evaluate before- probably the best thing that’s happened to me thus for, when my life is viewed through the lens of self-improvement.
There is one memory, which was glorious and the validity of which I do not doubt; which gave me sustaining albeit unfounded, hope for a whole month. And because it comforted me for such a time (and still comforts me, in some strange way, even today), I cherish that memory. But it is a small one.
It is the memory of the time during Clue rehearsal when She was talking about her own personality- and she concluded with, “that’s probably why I can never get a boyfriend”- which meant that she was available and looking. Oh, how that gave me hope. I should have asked her then, but I was lost in the moment, lost in her, too busy enjoying it all to do anything else… as is often the case around her.
Waiting had a cost. Gradually, I noticed Her hanging around Him. To be honest, it pains me more to censor His name than Hers. Probably because it seems somewhat sacrilegious (God is always the capital He) and also because this is not his fault in the slightest- it may or may not be mine, (that is something I am trying to figure out) but either way, it certainly isn’t His. And yet, He plays the role of unwitting antagonist in this tale of mine. Let us look back, one last time, to the happy period…
During Clue, she played her role well; it was a good part for her. After all, she always wanted a physicist husband. But more of interest were the times in Clue and Clue rehearsal when we weren’t acting- well, not acting on stage, at least. All life is an act, of course. As Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage”. But there are times when honesty and sincerity shine through. Such, I do hope, was the character of the scene I shall now describe. She walked in a circle around us as we lay on the floor of the darkened stage- we were worn out from many hours of practice, and she was full of energy and light as always. He was the other one lying down as we talked, and She traced an infinity symbol over and over as she paced. We discussed some philosophy (my favorite subject), and although nothing especially significant happened (except, possibly, the significance of Infinity…), I shall never forget it. The memory of lying in bliss, discussing philosophy with Her (He, no discredit intended to him, is a quiet man and did not much contribute to the conversation) even now brings me great joy.
And so comes the dark turning. I began to suspect, I noticed them always sitting together in class. And I would always make every undetectable effort to sit near Her. My suspicions turned to fear. I continued to confide in my confidant (who else are you to confide in, when you cannot confide in yourself without bias?), and gradually became more certain. My fear, (skipping, the famous progression of anger and hate by force of will and discipline) turned into suffering. The main turning point was during the fall play… the way they stuck together at intermission, it was obvious that they were dating. But, as I told my confidant at the time, I did not consider my own observation to be a credible source (I literally could not believe my eyes). I knew then and I know now that fear can inflate fear, and hope can inflate hope, leading to false senses of reality. But to my chagrin, he noticed the same thing.
All uncertainty and hope dissolved suddenly one day in Symphonic Band, when someone mentioned in a gossipy fashion Her as His girlfriend. Trying to act nonchalant with the desperation of a criminal in direct danger of being caught, I asked if she meant it in a jocular, metaphorical sense, or in a more literal sense (I used much more colloquial language at the time, of course). She said that they were definitely dating, and the slight segue in the conversation ended along with the vague optimism that I had kept a tenuous hold on for a number of weeks. I realized the only woman I have ever loved could never know I love her, unless circumstances beyond my control changed drastically.
Steeling myself for the occasion when I would announce my cares for her suddenly seemed like it had been a bad choice. Bridges are built to bend- any engineer will tell you that. If a bridge does not bend, when it breaks, it will snap into many pieces and be impossible to repair. A flexible bridge, on the other hand, bows so the strain is visible. Of course, in a human, this is a sign of weakness, this getting nervous and fidgeting under the strain. Not an acceptable thing. But a flexible bridge will outlast a rigid one. And when a flexible bridge breaks, it can be repaired.
They say no man is an island, but it is my view that people are islands, connected by bridges. The bridge I built between myself and Her was designed to take the potential shock of rejection without flinching. It was one of the most rigid mental structures I have ever built. It was made to bear the weight of my world as I rolled it from an island built for one to an island big enough for two. As part of my mental preparation, I had rolled my world halfway across the span, waiting for either confirmation or rejection to decide where it would go from there. It turned out to be a precarious position, because when it was revealed that my feelings were to be neither substantiated nor denied, but left to languish away, unnoticed, unheard… the bridge shattered into a thousand shards, and my world plummeted into the Sea.
Act II
Ever since I learned that They were dating, I have clung, in my insanity, to the hope that perhaps the relationship will end after a short time, as high school relationships so often do. Before I found out, I had established the habit of hanging out with Her and Him in the lobby during Ensemble class, a habit which formed when we were given our monologue assignments. We would all hang around one of the corners of the lobby, memorizing our monologues and testing each other’s knowledge of our monologues among small talk on various subjects. I was always looking for subtle ways to win Her affection (looking back, I am able to say without reserve or guilt that I do not believe I crossed any lines), and one of my favorite things to do was to show my knowledge around her. For example, when another actor asked about a peculiar phrase in their monologue- “My black English will go unheeded”- I did not hesitate to share my view, that it was a Victorian way of saying “my warnings will be ignored”. Being Herself something of a linguist, she agreed and said that that was probably a good interpretation. (Looking back, that interpretation might not have been correct, depending on whether the piece was contemporary or Victorian. If it were a contemporary piece, the phrase “black English” may have meant “Ebonics”).
Another time I tried to impress her with my knowledge was when we were hanging out just outside the lobby during a light rain, and we talked about everything from the reasons that the leaves change color to dimensions to rainfall. During that conversation, it was her turn to teach me a thing or two, which impressed me very much (most of the science teachers only tell me what I already know, and so I did not expect to learn from a fellow student) and made me love her even more.
The best of all the times in the lobby started with me staring at the carpet, primarily because I am careful to avoid staring at her (I usually read the Summa Theologiae when I hung out with them).
She asked me why I was staring at the carpet, and I said I was looking for the pattern- very true. I always look for the pattern in tiles, wallpapers, carpets, etc. But the carpet of the Lobby was one pattern that I could never figure out. The carpet was laid out in 2x2 foot squares of fabric. The squares could only be distinguished because where one square met another was the only place where the pattern ended abruptly and did not flow. Normally, when I had found the squares, I could match where one section of the pattern was identical with another part of the pattern and from that matching, figure out which square matched which other square and then what the original pattern had looked like. But these squares were an exception. No two squares were alike. The patterns repeated, but not in an organized manner. Some sections were oriented differently, and they all were cut off by the end of the square at different points. You could see the continuation of one of the pattern segments (what it would have looked like if the pattern hadn’t ended) in another square, where the pattern continued for a few more inches (although it may have been oriented differently). This mismatching of patterns lead me to believe that the pattern did not repeat in the same way the squares repeated… since the squares were two feet by two feet, the pattern itself may have been three meters by three meters, or some other such mismatched unit of measure. Then, when the tiles were cut, they were laid in a fairly random order and with random orientation, suggesting that squares had been assembled together to form the carpet when the whole array was already in the lobby, instead of at the factory. All of these observations I shared with her, pointing out the things I was describing as I went along. When I had finished, she said “you’d make a good scientist”…
Hanging out in the lobby with Them was one of the most positive times of my life. I was able to love Her from a safe distance, without infringing on His or Her rights. The problem with it was that it fueled me along in my love-which-should-not-have-been (I realized early on that if I had known that they were dating at the beginning, I probably would not have fallen in love with her out of respect for both of them [of course, they weren’t dating at the beginning]). The action of basking in my love for Her was innocent enough, but it led to brooding, obsession, and a general collapse of my ability to function.
For a long time, I had been using my English class to write essays and think about things other than the material the teacher was going over. I know that my father would be enraged to hear this, but I felt that there was no wrongdoing in my exchanging the predetermined curriculum for an accelerated version. I paid enough attention in class to maintain a B/C average, but most of my time in English was spent writing personal essays and thoughts. It was in this setting ignoring the teacher and writing on loose sheets of paper, that I began to brood about her instead of simply admiring Her. At first, my essays involving Her were very secret, never even directly discussing love, let alone mentioning Her.
As I found myself thinking of Her more and more often throughout the day and mental pressure built, I decided it would be a good idea to confide in my father. My friend-confidant certainly had more insight to the actual situation, but he was not able to offer advice based on the experience of years as my father was. As we hiked through the wilderness on a camping trip, I whispered to my father that I would like to have a personal chat with him, out of earshot from the rest of the group. We fell back in line, and I told my father my situation (all of it, from the first meeting to the paint store up to what was then the present). He revealed some of his knowledge of the general situation to me (he knew Her mother before I met Her). It did, as I had hoped it would, provide some mental release, but he could not tell me what to do aside from what I was already doing- prayerful consideration and patient thought.
Near the end of January, I had an interesting experience which prolonged my love/insanity/obsession (I am uncertain of what to call it anymore…). One of my friends (we’ll call him “Joe”) had gotten wind of the fact that I liked someone and, because he was totally unaware of the situation, had been trying to get me to tell him who it was for about a week. The Choir went on a trip to Cleveland, and both Joe and Her were there, as well as myself. As Joe and I ate lunch together at the food court, She stopped by and we chatted for a bit. Just after she left, Joe said, “it’s her, isn’t it?” I have always been good at hiding my expressions, and so I was surprised and somewhat worried: had I been showing more than I thought I was? I asked, “is it that obvious?” and he said, “not on your end”. The impact of those four words was great. Just to be sure (Joe has a habit of sarcastic kidding), I later asked him if he was being totally sincere when he said that, or if it was a sort of a cruel joke. He said that he was totally honest about it; he wouldn’t torture me like that. Considering I had just helped him through some relationship issues of his own, I was inclined to agree with him.
At this point, the spring musical, Seussical, was getting near and there was practice basically every day. Every single person mentioned in this memoir was involved in Seussical, thus making Seussical- related activities the perfect staging ground for dramatic action in this narrative. If I had been aware of that fact when it was time for auditions for Seussical… well, I probably would have gone through with the whole ordeal anyways. We learn from failure, not from success.
The second-biggest failure that relates to this memoir involved the personal website database known as Xanga. It was there that I broke down and invited everyone I knew to find out what had been bothering me for almost half a year. And I quote:
“For those of you who don't know, I am very much in love.
The problem is, I am very much in love with someone who is dating someone else.”
The ramifications were… interesting. Apparently I left the window with my Xanga open and my father “Happened” to read it (Big Brother is watching you). Which began a long conversation, during which I submitted a proposal that I had been considering for a while: I would tell my feelings to Him. Telling Her would be a stupid mistake, making Him furious and probably leaving Her angry at me for putting her in an uncomfortable situation, but I reasoned that I could tell Him, in a man-to-man talk, so that he would be aware of the situation. Perhaps I could talk through things with him, I thought. After a two-hour conversation, he agreed, I should go through with it, if I sincerely thought it would help to cure me. He also suggested that I remove the dramatic posts from my Xanga, but I wasn’t ready for that just yet.
My conversation with my father ended when the phone rang. It was my older brother, who had heard from His older brother that I wanted to talk to Him concerning Her- for I had first tried to make contact with Him the evening before, just after posting the Xanga entry. I had told Him that I wanted to talk to him face-to-face about something important, and when asked, I had told him that it was about his girlfriend. Anyways, the conversation that I had with my brother was just as intense as the one that I had just finished having with my father. At first, he thought that telling Him about my feelings was a bad move, but as we discussed the whole situation, we eventually concluded that it was the right thing to do- He had a right to know, to be warned (so did She, but to tell her would be disastrous).
I had updated my Xanga on a Friday, and before the weekend was over (I planned to talk with Him after Seussical practice on Monday), I had also talked through the situation with the pastor at my church. That talk was mostly centered around what my love of Her meant regarding my calling to the priesthood, and he offered me some very good advice: you can say “no” to God. If you do say “no”, he will provide you with a different way in which you can say “yes!” to him. Of course it is always best to say “yes!” to God, but God will not abandon you if you find yourself saying “no”. My pastor was the only one who thought that telling Him the situation would be a bad idea, that it would cause only pain and that there was no reason for it. Perhaps he was right, perhaps not. Either way, I feel much more guilty about the Xanga fiasco than I feel about my desire to tell Him.
Throughout the school day, I was bombarded with questions- who is it? Do I know her? Who is it? What grade is she in? Who is it?- everyone wanted to know. It made me feel terrible, and I realized that the Xanga entry was just too much. I privatized it (made it so that only I could see it) as soon as I got home.
During play practice on that day, when we were in the relative privacy of the back of the auditorium, He suggested that we talk then about what needed to be said. I had expected more time to mentally prepare, so I was somewhat hesitant. Sensing my hesitation, he told me “you should never be afraid to say what’s on your mind”. And so I did. I told him I was in love with his girlfriend but (and it was the most hastily added “but” I am aware of ever using) I had absolutely no interest in threatening their relationship. I was resigned to keep it to myself for as long as their relationship lasted. I wanted to say more, but looking back, it is probably best that he went away quietly just after I finished saying that, because neither of us were in a sane state of mind, and any conversation would have likely turned sour very quickly.
He never avoided me, I was as aware of that then as I am now. He did not avoid me, but he did not make himself open to talk with me, either. Our relationship carried on as it had for as long as we have known each other- polite small talk, nothing serious. I wanted to sit and talk things through with him just as I had my first confidant, my father, Joe, my brother, and my pastor, but it was his move. If he did not wish to talk things through with me, it was his right. I was a guest in the house of his personal life. I had knocked on the door politely, but since I was carrying a bomb that would, in all likelihood, damage his house and injure him deeply if he let me in, it was (and is) certainly his right to choose to not discuss the matter with me.
The Xanga fiasco had (what I guiltily admit to be) the desired effect. She heard about it. That is really all I wanted from it, but it was probably going further than I had a right to, when combined with telling Him at the same time. But there was one time when I went even further, several weeks after that whole ordeal.