life, pt. 1

Alex.

Eris showed up on my doorstep again. It had been years since we'd interacted at all and there she was, sitting on the porch just like she did when we were in high school, except now she was a little more guarded, and though her smile was sincere it was also not the kind of smile you give to someone you think of as a friend.

I let her in and offered her a beer, and she took the easy chair while I took the sofa and she told me in conversational tones how a meteor had fallen on her house and she decided it was probably a good time to go on vacation. So she took the cash she had left and jumped on a bus and drove across the country, and now here she was, sharing a beer with me almost like she'd never left.

"You don't really look like someone who's just lost all their worldly possessions in a freak accident," I said.

And she just shrugged, and said, "I don't know. That's life, I guess."

It took me a while to figure out why that bothered me. Something about the phrase put me on edge until she was gone again. And I think it was this: I could never believe that life is just a sequence of freak accidents and disasters. We were ultimately terrible for each other, of course, but in between all of that we had such beautiful moments. Moments that probably led her to come here on a whim, moments that convinced me to invite her in against my better judgment. To just dismiss it all with a shrug and a "that's life" made it all seem so cheap.

a prelude for may

It would probably be a lie to say that May has always been my favorite month, but in recent years I've come to accept that it is the best month, at least here in Seattle. May is the height of spring, before summer takes its hold and all the colors fade and the sun becomes an interminable presence in the sky. May is the month when people no longer worry that the bad weather might come back. May is a month for life.

The stories this month are stories about life--which is, of course, a very broad term. But that's what happens when you live by the cycle of the seasons, I suppose. Winter is a time of death, spring is a time of life, summer is eternal, autumn is ephemeral. It's all about symbols, sure, but these are symbols that matter, symbols that people believe in.

So: life. I have some stories about it, if you'd like to read them.

plans, pt. 5

Alex.

I never really liked making plans, but with Eris it was kind of necessary. Without plans to hold her down she was completely unpredictable. I think that's what drew me to her in the first place, because chaos always looks like a lot of fun until you have to deal with it constantly. But when I made a plan she would always follow through, so it sort of became our thing.

I remember, back when I was still calling her 'porch girl' and we weren't really officially together, I started making these very convoluted, specific plans, just to see if she'd follow through. I thought at the time that she did because she was eager to please, but looking back I feel like this was something she'd done to prove that she was better than me, or more reliable than me. At the time it was somewhere between flattering and creepy.

The thing is, the first time we met I promised I'd wait outside to meet her again, and I never did. And throughout our entire relationship she told me I was her anchor, and the whole time she was really telling me, through everything that she did, that she was the reliable one. In the end she betrayed my trust, of course, but she never once broke her word. When she agreed to a plan, she stuck with it, and that's something I can't say for myself.

plans, pt. 4

Eleutheria.

For years I was convinced that the only important thing in this world was "plans." I was never particularly happy with it, but when I made a plan I stuck with it, come hell or high water. My days were mapped out weeks in advance. Somehow I was convinced this was the road to a successful and enlightened future.

My sister came to visit unexpectedly once and I remember the first night she was in town I had a date with some kid who, despite boring me to tears on our first date, managed to convince me to see him again. He said he had something special planned. I was dreading the evening, but a plan was a plan. I gave Eris my regrets, and sort of expected to go on the date and find some excuse to leave early.

Instead she stole my phone and called him and said "Yeah, this is her sister. She can't come out tonight, or any other night, because I'm visiting and you're boring." Then she deleted his contact and tossed the phone back at me. "There! Now you don't have to see him. Now we can watch a movie or something."

I reluctantly assented, but was determined not to enjoy myself. That plan, too, fell through pretty quickly, and as I was sleeping those first, vital seeds of doubt were finally planted: maybe I was living life all wrong. Maybe I could do without all the useless plans.

plans, pt. 3

Eris.

I remember once I was delirious with fever, and instead of staying away like a smart person Alex just lay with me in bed, as if that would somehow make me feel better. Trying to sleep that night was an unending nightmare of chills and sudden overwhelming heat, strung together by fever dreams from some haunted corner of my psyche.

I remember thinking that the night would go on forever, that maybe there had never been anything but night and anything else was just a dream. And then cutting through my delirium Alex started talking, just making these stupid little plans. "Hey, when you feel better we should go get ice cream." "This weekend do you want to go see that movie?" "I kind of want to take a road trip next week."

And it actually helped. Somehow she got my brain thinking about these tiny little concrete moments, these meaningless little plans, and at some point as she kept talking I must have finally drifted off to sleep, my fevered mind content in the knowledge that at some point in the future we were going to go get ice cream. Sometimes it's enough to just have a plan.

plans, pt. 2

Nicholas.

When you called and asked if I could pick you up from the airport, I started making plans. As soon as I knew when your flight was, I tried to figure out what we should do that night, because you were someone I made plans for, even if they never happened properly. I made plans because you were important to me, and I knew this gesture you'd made, asking me to give you a ride, wasn't meaningless. I knew that because nothing you do is meaningless. There's always a reason and there's always a plan.

I agonized over this for, oh, it must have been weeks. None of the plans were actually particularly viable because you'd have just flown for however many hours it is from London to Seattle, and you'd be tired. But I tried. I imagined driving out to Gasworks or something and watching the city and just talking like we used to do before, and I kept coming back to that one.

So that was the plan. I still remember ignoring your phone calls that night, thinking what a lovely night it would have been to just sit on the grass and watch the skyline glow, your head on my shoulder. And I remember thinking, as I deleted your texts without reading them, it had been a good plan.

plans, pt. 1

Melissa.

The first time I met you--I want to say early April, but time is so fickle--I made plans. First it was just planning to get you alone so I could talk to you. This worked better than I'd expected, because it turns out we both hate parties. Did I ever tell you that I hate parties? I've just gotten better at hiding it; you, I'm not sure if you ever figured it out.

Anyway, once we'd had a chance to talk I knew I'd walk you home. We'd stand on the front porch under the light of the waning moon and talk. You'd probably pretend to fumble with your keys for a while, then we'd sit down and sit in the beautiful chill of an early spring's night. By that point we'd both be too drunk to be subtle while flirting, but we'd try anyway.

You'd try to kiss me, then, and I wouldn't let you. I actually remember what I had planned better than I remember what actually happened. You'd lean in, hesitant, because you're a hesitant sort of person, and then I'd pull back, hold you at arm's length. Then I'd say something like "Maybe when you're sober you should give me a call."

The thing is, and I think you figured this out before I did, this wasn't just a plan for how to tease the boy I'd just met at a party I didn't want to be at. It lasted a lot longer than that, because the first time I met you, I planned to always be just out of your reach.

a prelude for april

I never much cared for March, conceptually. It's not quite spring and not quite winter (though this year it has been very spring-like indeed), so I always have a hard time trusting it. It's not until April rolls around that you can really feel safe in the knowledge that spring is here, and you can start making plans again.

This is probably why April's stories are about plans, which are, to me, something of a strange concept. At the very least, you can't ever speak them out loud. Plans never, ever work out the way they ought to. Even the seasons never seem to happen like they should. The universe goes on whether or not we make our plans. And yet people continue to make them. It's the strangest thing.

Of course, this whole little project has been a plan in its own way, and at the very least I'm enjoying myself. Hopefully you are, too, because there's still most of a year of it left.

trust, pt. 5

Melissa.

Everyone always talks about trust like it's some sort of a big deal, as if every moment of every day isn't full of decisions to trust someone for no good reason. I trust that the bus driver isn't going to drive us off a bridge, for instance, even though I'm pretty sure we've all seen those YouTube videos of a bus driving off a bridge. All this talk about trust being rare or sacred is just another way of saying "sometimes life goes wrong, and I'm going to live in terror of that moment."

So, yes, I trusted you. I had no reason not to. I trusted you wholly and completely and implicitly because as far as I was aware, you weren't going to be a dick about it. Life is simpler when you stop trying to make trust sound important. It's just a thing that humans have to do in order to survive.

I remember when you used to send me all these maudlin emails late at night--I assume you were drunk, and I never responded to them--asking me to forgive you for your "betrayal." Maybe every couple of months or so. Did you ever wonder about why I never wrote back? Never even mentioned them? It was mostly because I never felt "betrayed." I don't think I know what the word means. I felt abandoned, sure, and the chasm between us was unfathomably wide, but betrayed? Really? Don't flatter yourself.

I trust a lot of people who end up failing to live up to that trust. Sometimes it's minor, sometimes it's a big deal. It hurts, sure. But it's not a betrayal merely because my expectations are unrealistic. It's as much my own doing as anyone else's. You didn't betray me. You never lost my trust. It's just not that big a deal.

trust, pt. 4

Nicholas.

Didn't we actually meet at a St. Patrick's day party? I can picture it clearly, you complaining about cultural appropriation, about the American need to find an excuse to get drunk. I still hear the sarcasm in your voice, see the ironic little smirk you're still so good at. I showed up late and didn't really know anyone there, but I knew two things as soon as I arrived: I knew that you were pretty much insufferable, and I knew that you liked me for some reason.

I was nervous before I left for the party, and despite all I'd had to drink it wasn't enough to stop me from feeling completely overwhelmed. I stepped out back to get some air, and somehow there you were  standing next to me. "You feeling all right?" All the irony and sarcasm gone. You were actually, genuinely concerned.

Obviously I've since come to regret this decision, but I answered honestly, because at that moment I trusted you. We talked until I felt a little better, then you walked me home. We stood on the porch for a while, and you leaned in close and I was certain you were going to kiss me, and you suggested that I should call you when I wasn't being a sloppy drunk.

In retrospect I know you were just being your insufferable self, but I was drunk on that weird bond that trust makes, and I decided I'd call you the moment I was sober.

trust, pt. 3

Eris.

I always knew I was probably too unstable to be trustworthy--sometimes it was a dim thought somewhere in the back of my mind, but it was there. There was nothing more terrifying than the idea of someone I cared about deciding that they should trust me. It would be nothing more than a string of betrayals, and as soon as I detected a closeness to my relationships I'd point that out.

It didn't work. Not with Alex, not with anyone. I remember how she took it as some sort of confession, told me she was sure I'd never do anything to hurt her, acted like I wanted sympathy when I said this, when all I wanted was a little distance. And I sighed and let it happen, because what else could I do? The irony, of course, is that if I were actually trustworthy I probably would have found the strength to say something. Instead I decided, well, I'd done my best, right?

I used to say I didn't realize how much power being trusted gave me, but I think I did, at least on some level. It's just that until the very end, I was never willing to actually use that power. I knew that I was unworthy of trust, but I also knew that it was sacred, so I handled it with the reverence it deserved.

trust, pt. 2

Eleutheria. 

In my old social circles, trust was pretty much not a thing that happened. Life was lived eternally for the moment. People made plans with no intention of ever following through, or feigned interest simply because that's what you were supposed to do. Everything was utterly meaningless, and I spent countless hours of my life trying to inject meaning into it.

There was this kid that I dated back then who seemed so different from all of that. He was uncertain in a world full of meaningless certainty--he couldn't even decide what name he wanted people to call him. And he even managed to make his perpetual uncertainty seem somehow profound. I was utterly taken by him.

I told my sister about him and she laughed at me. "He sounds like me," she said.

"And I trust you."

"Right, but I'm your sister. He's not. Mark my words, that relationship is not going to last. People like me are inherently untrustworthy."

I trusted her judgment, of course, but I decided to stick with it anyway. Heedless of the consequences, I plunged in to a world of uncertainty. I had no real reason to trust this poor kid, but I did it anyway. Sometimes you have to do something radical.

trust, pt. 1

Alex.

I was always pretty careful about who to trust. I know that makes me sound like I think I'm all smart and clever and shit but it's just the truth. I didn't let people get close to me. It was safest that way. Then I started hoarding secrets so I could hand some out to the few people that earned my trust.

The one I remember is the one I gave to Eris, forever ago. It was a story I'd never told anyone. When I was in middle school I had a friend who died. Back then it was just me and her against the world. We were pretty much inseparable, and probably a little insufferable, too. I got no illusions about that. I remember we were out running around, doing whatever it is middle school kids do and she suddenly just collapsed. I thought she was just being silly. I laughed. I told her to get up. Then when she didn't I just sat there at her side and had no fucking idea what to do. It felt like forever before I finally called someone to help. And I always wondered if she might have lived if only I'd been smart enough to call for help sooner.

I never told anyone that story, at first because it hurt, then later because I wanted to have a secret. Then Eris showed up on my front porch and suddenly I wanted her to be a part of that. I let her in and wanted to make sure she knew how much I trusted her, so I gave her this secret. Literally gave it to her, all wrapped up and written down. "I'm giving you this because I know I can trust you," I said, and I meant every word.

a prelude for march

Saying farewell to February always feels simultaneously momentous and premature. February is winter's last best chance at making its fingers felt in the world, but March is a month fraught with uncertainty, where winter and spring vie for supremacy. Maybe it's fitting, then, that the theme for March will be "trust." March is a month of few certainties, and when the world is chaotic sometimes there is nothing left to do but trust. It's terrifying and weird and beautiful all at once--to trust is to surrender to the uncertainty that surrounds us.

When I was younger, one of the phrases that always stuck with me was "the people in these songs should have names." I found myself thinking about that this month, and I realized that, though I know the names of all of these people who are telling stories, you do not. I imagined that maybe it would be an interesting endeavor to work out who was telling which story, but I think I was mistaken in this. So from now on I will give them names. Or rather, I will reveal their names--they've had these names since long before I started writing this. Furthermore, I've given them names in the stories I've already published--perhaps you should go back and reacquaint yourself with them?

It is my hope that these stories will build as the year wears--there will be new context and new perspectives, and it's only four months until we start reaching counterpoints. Four months! It seems so far from now, but also so very close. Time seldom follows the rules we tell it to, and it never really fits in the stories we give it.

isolation, pt. 5

Alex.
This was never really my strong suit. She was the only person I was ever really close with for a long time, you know? I didn't need people. That was sort of my thing. So I was used to being alone. The world's a big place, and most of it's shitty. You learn to deal with it. One of the things she was always telling me is how nobody's self-perception is any good. I just always figured I had mine figured. She was right, though. Somehow I came to rely on her being there. I'm not sure which part I regret more: that I needed her, or that I didn't realize it until she was gone.

But the point is I didn't realize it, so I didn't think I'd care if I drove her off. The things I used to find charming--the restlessness, the uncertainty, that weird eternal calm--started to bug the shit out of me, and eventually I started calling her on it. We'd fight, we'd make up. But we were both young and dumb. I didn't so much want her gone as I wanted her to be less . . . her.

It felt like every day I was saying "I'm tired of your bullshit," and every day she'd come back with something snide that I'd ignore, because life's too short, you know? I thought I'd seen the worst she could offer. Then I said it one day and she snapped. I'd never seen anyone so angry. I didn't know anyone could be so angry, especially her--she'd lose her temper for a minute or two, which mostly meant she'd raise her voice a little and say something sarcastic and dismissive, then she'd calm back down and go back to that weird calm of hers. It never lasted. This was different. This was someone expressing all the frustration that she'd been quietly trying to ignore for--it must have been years at that point.

I fled because I needed to get away. Then I realized I had nowhere I could go. I'd driven away the only person who would be willing to help. I drove around the city for hours, just looking for something that could feel sort of like a home.

isolation, pt. 4

Eris.
Of course, every story that says "in retrospect" is a lie. For instance:

In retrospect, I guess we must have met on Valentine's day. I didn't think of it at the time because, you know, we'd just met, and I was single and not really thinking about it at all. I just remember it being one of those Seattle winters that wasn't really a winter, and my sister calling me to tell me she couldn't pick me up after class today, so I thought something like "fuck it, I'm going to walk." Though I guess it's hard to imagine high school-aged me saying "fuck it."

Then about halfway there (it's always halfway when you're walking) I sat down on some random doorstep to tie my shoes and eat some Valentine's candy I'd gotten, and then the girl that lived there came out on the porch and sat next to me. And that was profoundly weird, and I don't think she learned my name for months (she called me Porch Girl until she stopped finding that amusing, which took a while). The rest of that week I walked home from school, hoping she might wait outside for me like she promised she would. And every day there was no one there. Just me and the clang of the city, in this neighborhood I didn't really know. 

Sometimes I still tell people that this was the moment that made me realize that there is this whole world out there, and none of it cares about me, but that's probably not true. I think I always knew that, even as a self-absorbed teen: the world is big and unfriendly. So after I passed her house I thought about what would happen if I took a wrong turn and got lost somehow, and became convinced that nobody would care. Naturally this meant that in my mind, she was inextricable from isolation and loneliness. My only mistake was thinking that she was a shelter from an indifferent world.

isolation, pt. 3

Eleutheria.
I used to be so afraid of isolation. I think that's what drove me. Somehow I'd become convinced that being introverted was a vice, so I forced myself to go out, burying myself in plans, interacting with people I didn't really like, because some anti-Imperial activist once said "be the change you want to see in this world" and I decided I wanted to be like all of these happy extroverts that interacted with all these people I didn't like and seemed to enjoy themselves. Worse, I managed to get a job writing about the awful culture I'd sunk myself into. So even if it were possible for me to enjoy it (which it wasn't), now it was about work.

This is a story I'd end up telling my sister's old lover; then I wrote about telling that story as the last thing I ever wrote for my little culture blog. It was one of those parties I was always going to, where I met this kid who was shy and adorable and took forever to finally actually kiss me no matter how many hints I dropped. We spent the evening kissing on the floor, and the whole time all I could think about was the guy sleeping on the couch three feet away, and how we must have been keeping him awake and how uncomfortable that must have been for him.

Naturally even once we'd finished I spent the evening lying awake and wondering if this would forever color his perception of me, if this altogether weird evening had managed to alienate someone who was actually pretty cool (a rarity in this world I lived in now). I felt a sense of loss, and in retrospect I think it was about then that I realized why I always felt so lonely.

I met a good friend for coffee the next morning and told him about my revelation. It went something like: "It's like, I thought the cure for loneliness was to just meet as many people as possible, you know? And I'd always come home and feel even worse."

"Hangover notwithstanding?"

"Hangover notwithstanding."

Of course he made fun of me for living to please a version of me that never existed, and of course I fell into the same trap again a few days later, but I went home and filled my head with stories and really, truly, basked in my isolation.

isolation, pt. 2

Melissa.
You want to know what isolation is? Isolation is coming home from a beautiful vacation with a head full of hope and landing in the airport late at night and exhausted and happy and realizing the person who promised to pick you up at the airport isn't there and won't be coming at all. It's waiting at the baggage claim and watching as everyone else slowly filters out with their families and loved ones. It's not having the money for a cab, and being too late to take public transit, and trying to sleep on your luggage until the buses start running again in the morning.

I think I had twenty dollars to my name that night. I had the evening planned out. We'd go to that 24-hour place we used to go to, and drink too much coffee and eat too much greasy food and and stay up until we were delirious. It would be a beautiful thing--except you weren't there. Instead I tried to use my carry-on as a pillow and ended up staring at the carousel for hours, far too uncomfortable to sleep--and even if I wasn't uncomfortable, how could anyone sleep when they returned to the real world and found that they had finally burned all their bridges? How could anyone sleep when they are so utterly alone?

Because I made another realization that night: this was all my own doing. I'd driven you away. I'd driven everyone away. There was no one to blame but me. In my deepest solitude, I could not even turn to myself for comfort. That's what stung most, I think. That's why I could never really forgive you.

I caught a bus in the morning and spent the last of my money on groceries. I didn't speak to another living soul for a week.

isolation, pt. 1

Nicholas.
The other night I was waiting for the bus, which isn't so unusual, but then I realized it was, you know, that bus stop. This was probably 1 or 2 am, after a show on the Hill, and there was this weird misty drizzle and this thick fog, and it was a weeknight so everything was pretty quiet, and with the fog it seemed like I was just on this island of reality in the middle of this fucked up world we live in. I felt powerful. I felt alive.

That's something I've learned since last we spoke. Isolation is a powerful thing. I remember once you said something about hating the thought of being left alone with your thoughts. That night it filled me with a strange energy--that nobility of mind the Prince of Denmark spoke of. That night I could endure anything, and I could endure it alone.

It reminded me of that time I'd watched you walk off into the snow, leaving me alone at that same bus stop, all those years ago. (I still have your scarf, by the way.) I didn't understand the feeling then, but I felt the same strength fill me then. I didn't recognize it at the time, but I do now, and this time I'm determined to hang onto it. Except here you still are, haunting my thoughts, refusing to be exorcised by my words. Even in my deepest solitude you undermine me.

a prelude for february

It's always hard to believe that a whole month has passed since we put another year behind us, but that's the thing about time: it doesn't care.

The stories in February are stories about isolation, because February is a month where you hide from the world. You've endured two months of winter and there's still at least one to go, and all the winter festivals to help keep you warm and human are behind you. February is a month to be endured alone.

There were five stories in January, which were told to me by five people, and which I've told here before. They're five people who know each other, and they're often stories about each other, and there will be stories from each of them every month. And every story will have a counterpoint, six months later: while January's stories were about hope, July's will be about regret.

But we're a long ways from the warmth of the July sun, or even the brilliant colors of May. It's still the winter, with all the winter's problems, and somehow the shortest month of the year is always one of the longest.