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28 December 2009 @ 05:55 pm
Is this position familiar, darling? / All monkeys do what they see.  
So I checked my voicemail on Christmas. I'd gotten a call from HB on Christmas Eve, I discovered. He was telling me that the thing he had been pushing me to do with him in January -- the thing I'd already rearranged my schedule to do, mind -- he was now reconsidering. Which should not have come as a shock to me -- I should have known that he never had any intention of doing it.

Part of me is furious with him for being a lying asshole, obviously, but part of me is furious with myself for being naive enough to believe a word he'd ever said when I knew the man to be an inveterate liar. Or rather, for ignoring the huge alarm bells going off every time he spoke in favor of the tiny, insistent voice saying, "Why would he lie about this? There's no reason to lie. Maybe he means it."

I'm really not sure which is worse -- the liars or the self-righteous honest ones, like Scott. I should have known better than to believe anything HB said, because he'll always lie, whether he needs to or not -- it's a compulsion, and it's a power trip. Scott, on the other hand, always at least believed he was telling the truth, even when the truth was brutal and vicious -- which is just as much a power trip as lying. But they're both a pain in the ass, really, because there will always be a little voice thinking that HB is being honest this time, while Scott always claims to be telling the truth but never tells the actual truth -- rather his current interpretation or recollection of the truth -- which has been known to develop spontaneous and convenient blind spots.

I had this dream about Scott last night. I was in New York on Institute business and ran into him in a university library. After initial hostilities on both sides, we came to a civil truce and managed to have drinks and renew our acquaintance platonically without any great pain or angst on either side. My subconscious is torturing me again -- this is the same brain that, not too long ago, gave me this gorgeous dream about what might've been if I'd met Perfect Tommy in college. It would be fine, if it weren't for waking up to the harsh light of day.

I just looked up Scott on Facebook for the first time in two years. His profile is blocked, obviously -- he's actually got a blank green block as his user picture now. (Initially I thought he'd blocked his profile pictures, but I don't think there's a way to do that, and certainly not a way to do it and have a blank green block appear instead.) He did have one public note that was a link to an article telling people not to go to grad school in the Humanities, which is kind of interesting, since he was the one who was always so gung-ho about grad school. In fact, he was the one who told me that the private sector is hell and that grad school is the only refuge for intellectuals. He, obviously, had never considered working for the Banzai Institute.

I guess the point is that, psychically speaking, he's back. Not like he was before my Renaissance moment, but I always had a feeling that a relapse of some kind was inevitable. Although I can't say so far that there's any of the usual angst or self-flagellation associated with this resurgence of memory; so far it's primarily, if this isn't too ridiculous, a bit wistful. I am honestly tempted to get in touch with him; I'm not sure whether I could honestly say I miss him at this point, or for that matter what we'd talk about now that I have determinedly forgotten most of the theory I learned in grad school. I suppose we would have to talk about his girlfriend, the thought of whom... honestly doesn't really affect me anymore. Maybe if his profile picture had been of the two of them together, it would have. I mean, I don't know, maybe once I heard her name in his voice again it would, maybe it would rip the wound right back open. Maybe now that the scar has been there for a while, I've forgotten how much it hurt before.

I think it's as much as anything a desire to salvage something, to feel like those two-and-a-half years of my life weren't wasted time, just a mistake to be written off and forgotten. Over the course of my nomadic life, I have lost so many people to time and distance and other things out of my control -- but this I can control. It's been two years and three weeks since I told him I needed him out of my life, and at the time I called it temporary. I've since accepted that it really wasn't meant to be, but maybe. I don't know, maybe it should be, maybe for once I should try to keep a bridge rather than let it burn.

Commence the telling me I'm crazy now.
 
 
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
 
 
 
pointnopointpointnopoint on December 29th, 2009 03:08 am (UTC)
You are not crazy. I tend to obsess about people too, but really, I think once someone fabulous enters your life, all of this contemplation about Scott will cease. You can hit me for saying that, but I truly think that.

I am also going senile, perhaps you can email me and remind me which one HB is? Sometimes I have trouble remembering whose pseudonym goes with whom.

Also, did you get my Christmas card?
the accidental gothboyjchance on December 29th, 2009 12:06 pm (UTC)
No one and nothing is a complete waste unless you choose not to learn anything. Even my worst times, I tend to wish they were _shorter_ rather than that they never happened.
Jeanperspicacious on December 29th, 2009 04:04 pm (UTC)
You're decidedly not crazy for wanting closure. Which is I suspect the real impetus behind wanting to contact him again - not that it excludes the desire to salvage something, which also makes sense (who wouldn't want to feel like the time wasn't wasted?). The real question, would contacting him again actually provide closure or a sense that the time wasn't wasted? I would guess that it wouldn't really do either. Which sucks a lot.

On another, cheerier note, there are PLENTY of bridges you've kept - I mean, I haven't lived in the same city as you in the past ten (is that right? I think so!) years! An ENTIRE DECADE.

Speaking of which, I miss the hell out of you.