the king is dead and the queen has flown

Monday, August 28, 2000
@ home        2356 hrs

    Last Tuesday Wendi (basically, although not angrily or physically) kicked me out of her house to be alone.  We’d spoken on the phone a few times earlier in the week and mentioned some vague notion of seeing each other.  Something which never came to fruition even though I really wanted to see her after our Serious Talk last Monday night.  A talk which actually turned out decent, contrary to my and the popular expectation.  

    The next day, the day I figured we’d see each other and I’d be able to give a full supporting monologue (or rebuttal) to her speech that Monday night, ended in her going to get a massage to work out a sharp pain in her neck, having a moment within herself during the massage, and wanting to be alone for the night.  Which turned into the week.  Which, if tomorrow goes as it did today (and it probably will), will turn into going on two weeks.  

    So, last Friday night, we made the usual plans for her to call me after she got back from studying for her state certification exams in massage therapy (I think that may be the only time she was out of the immediate area of her house the entire weekend, but I really know nothing for certain).  I didn’t expect her to call.  She’d been telling me she’d call me all damn week.  Even the night she threw me off her porch she said she’d call me the next day.  I actually thought she might, you know, feel obligated to call me to explain what the hell was going on… I thought wrong.  

    Her class got out at 9:30 PM.  Around 9:45 PM, I think, my friend, Brian (a painter) invited me over to his apartment for smoke, food, and movie-watching.  I took him up on it, and as we’re walking to his car, my phone rings.  She actually called.  He didn’t want me to tell her where we were going, so I told her some shit about going looking for George and that I’d be back in two hours.
She said, “Well, why don’t you just stay at Ruta Maya?  I’ll be there in a few minutes.  I’d really like to see you.”
Then Brian changed his mind and I told her I lied and the truth.  

    She and Danielle decided they wanted to come over and watch the movie and smoke, too.  Wendi and I saw each other, but nothing of meaning was said.  She left early, came right back, and asked Brian for an extra j for her roommate, saying he’d be mad if she came home after smoking.  Pretty tacky.  

    I crashed at home that Friday night.  Then left around nine Saturday morning to help a friend take some garbage to the dump using my truck.  It only took about twenty minutes and for it I got paid three j’s and a lunch.  Hung with him a bit longer, went to a little party and let my new panic attacks build in intensity until, finally, sitting at Ruta Maya that night after having just heard from Wendi that she’s going to bed (9:35 PM) and not coming out, I cracked.  I called her back and asked what the hell was going on between us.  

    She didn’t know the answer.  She just needed to be alone.  “It’s not that I don’t want to see you…” transposed with, early in the conversation, “I just can’t see you right now.”  Maybe she was physically restrained at the moment.  But she did say we’d get together the next day after she made my wanting (or as she said, “needing”) to see her sound sinful, a failure of independent character.
I said, “Yeah, we’ve been saying that for the last five days.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“Yes, we have.”
“Well, whatever.  We’ll see each other tomorrow.”  

    She was right.  We would see each other the next day.  I’d force it.  

    I spent that night over at a friend’s house and spent the day smoking and eating BBQ steak, then around 7:00 PM, after calling Wendi about five times and getting no answer and no response to my messages, I decide to go over there.

    She’s in the shower.  I talk to her roommate and pet his dog.  She gets out, sit at the other end of the couch from me and smokes some dope from the end of a pipe she bought while out with me a week or so before.  We don’t really say much, I tell her how I witnessed a hit-and-run (and a subsequent heart attack) across the street from my friend’s house that afternoon.  Soon enough, she got up without a word and went to her bedroom, closing all the doors.  

    Her roommate said, “She must be pissed.”
I kind of shrug.  Apparently.
“I don’t know if it’s something I did or you did,” he says.
As I get up to walk into her room via the bathroom, I say, “Well, does she normally do that when it’s just you and her?”

    I find her lying in her bed, the clothes she’d been wearing in the other room on the floor, under a blanket and face turned away from the door.  I try some opening lines–humor, caring–to no avail.  She’s unresponsive.  Only says she needs to be alone.  When I opine that she doesn’t seem happy, she says she was happy before I came over.  So I tell her I’ll leave if she’ll talk to me for five minutes.

    In that five minutes, she told me she was “getting in touch with” herself, and that she needs more time because she is “a deep person.”   She also mentioned that, while she’s working on fixing herself, maybe I should concentrate on fixing some of the “issues” in myself.  I replied that I was working on them right now, and when she said that she couldn’t help me, I answered that I wasn’t asking for her help.  I thought that friends could see friends even when they didn’t need help.  My mistakes.  Finally, I told her good luck and tried to keep the conversation moving or get her to leave the house with me, but it ended in my just leaving.     

   I’d like to criticize her for suddenly pulling a 180 and treating her friends so badly, but I can’t.  I spent a lot of time alone in high school.  Maybe everyone needs their time, and we all find it different ways in different stages of life.  I don’t know.  But I do think many people are “getting in touch” with themselves every day and they don’t need a full withdrawal from their friends to do it.  I thought of formulating some Theory of Static Misrepresentation, or Understanding Yourself in Static Situations Leads to a Very Fragile Understanding of the Self. 

   That night, I went to Ruta Maya and met up with Brian.  He offered to let me hang at his place and watch another movie.  We ended up just having a really good conversation about everything under the sun–governments, the military, war, girls, the environment, creation, art, and I let him read a couple of my pieces, which he liked– late into the night.  Ended up sleeping on the floor of his living room last night. 

   So, essentially, this is my first time being home since early Saturday morning.  Man, I’m tired.

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