2006-05-13
On houses
I am sitting in my near-empty room. There is a blanket and a pillow, two suitcases, my bag and a book. My bible and a cup.
If I were to return, I would identify each of the places I have lived in as my own. That is why I can't return, and that is why returning feels dangerous.
I spent a lot of my life in one place; I grew to dislike that place. I never knew how easy it was to identify with four walls and a door.
I probably would have stayed here if the stuff hadn't happened with said guy. I would have gotten a job, or two, and be working happily. I would have lived here throughout the summer; I would have dug a vegetable garden, turned the earth, and planted peas, beans, squash, potatoes and tomatoes. The house is a on a hill; blocks away from the river, so the soil is heavy and silty, and plants grow well. I've wanted a garden for three years now and been foiled each time. I can't seem to stay long enough in one spot.
The river that runs below our house is the same river that ran blocks below the house I grew up in. Funny how that works. It follws me. Or I follow it. I can't tell you how many times I've watched dogs spash in it, fished in it,walked by it and if I was somewhere else besides Mission, swam in it. This is the first time I'll leave my river, except for vacations, etc -- my whole life has been spent blocks from one stretch of this river or another. I just realized that and it's kind of nuts.
When "we" went out that one time (I know, once, it's kinda sad, but we're -or I was- a busy person), we went to the river. It was the first time I'd been there, and I didn't realize it was just blocks from our house. We tramped down the never-ending, winding dirt-then-mud road. Half-way down, he broke up with me. Kind of. What he said was that he was scared. Scared of liking me. Scared of people. Scared of responsibilities. And boy, is he ever -- it's funny what you notice when your eyes are actually open. I should have ran, then. I should have done a lot of things. But I didn't. I, again, swallowed my anger, I swallowed my hurt, and I just stood there and the bottom of the river valley in the late march wind and listened to him talk. I felt like jumping in. Knowing my luck I would have ended up standing in five feet of thick water; gritty from the pulp-mill two miles down the river that sends billowing and reflective smoke upwards and over to reflect the moon. I don't ever plan on feeling like that again. But I don't plan on a lot of things. I didn't plan on that.
He came back, of course. Kind of. Did I go back? Kind of. We were too good of 'friends', unspoken, to let something like a total lack of respect or a formal relationship get in the way things. I think I thought he was more than he was.
The funny thing is, until him, I actually believed that all people were good. He's not [i]bad[/i]. He hurt me; I'm sure I've hurt people. I think the best way to put it is I just realized that not everyone strives to live to their potential. Or, that, people, in general, had good intentions. Or.. that they would do what is right. Or have a backbone, kind of. He's not bad. Just... not someone I would want behind me. He's just not who I thought he was. He's not who he says he is. I don't think he's who he thinks he is -- the bad person he thinks he is, either. I think he's just a child. And... that's sad.
That's more than I like to say about someone else on here. It makes me uncomfortable. I dunno if I'll leave it up.
So, that's why I'm leaving. I was foolish and I trusted too easily. I don't like to be hurt, and I really don't like to stay in the same place/house that I've been hurt. In this, I feel that I've been called on an adventure. Kind of. I know I've been told to go, so I go, with my head as high as I dare hold it.
Wow. Here goes.
suzza at 10:45 p.m.