Last night

It was one of those nights.

"I really want to kiss you right now."

Fuck. It was one of those nights I haven't had since college, I think. Sitting with a friend, having a good conversation, and suddenly, this confession. Blame it on the alcohol -- it's fine when we do that. It's not as awkward later.

The problem is, that in college, this shit happened. Sometimes there were drunk confessions from guys I thought were just close friends. But now I'm at the point in my life where this hasn't happened in forever. I thought it was a thing of the past. I'm too old. Friends are friends. I no longer inspire these feelings of passion that were once (dare I say?) almost commonplace.

But here it is, in this bar, from a dear, close friend. 

All I can say is "No." All I can think is "You're engaged." Goddamnit. 

And then my feelings. My fucking feelings are all over the place. Because part of me wants to kiss him anyway. Part of me agrees with him. If it hadn't been a matter of geography, we might be together. We might be the ones getting married and working on dual citizenships and an international relationship.

Part of me hates myself. Hates everything. Because it's still too soon after the last relationship, the one I thought I could will to last.

Part of me feels hopeful. Maybe I'm not past my prime after all.

And part of me just feels sad. Like I should just go to bed.

Some days...

Some days everything hurts--the sincerely kind things people say break your heart, the thoughts of what might have been overwhelm you, and the longing to talk to those who can never speak again makes you want to lay down and cry. Some days, beneath the smiles and the day-to-day transactions, you are dying inside. 

Not every day can feel this way, though, and I've got to believe that this year will be better. We all have to keep moving forward.

Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

We lost one of the good ones today. Matt Freeman, Captain, USMC, my dear friend--and friend, brother, son, husband to others--was killed on the ground in Afghanistan.

I still don't know the exact circumstances of his death, and I can't seem to get my head around the fact that he's gone. The last time I saw him was two years ago, at Amy's funeral in Savannah, and now the last time I may see him will be at his own funeral.

Nothing in life prepares you for this, prepares you to start losing the people you love before they turn thirty. I am taking turns feeling stunned, devastated, angry, and empty.

Yes, it had been awhile since we talked, and longer since we had seen one another, but I always felt like Matt was close, like we could pick up where we left off in a second. He was one of those people who would (will) always be important in my life. First and foremost, he was one of my closest friends throughout high school, someone I felt like I could tell pretty much anything and never be judged, which is nothing short of monumental at that age. He could always be counted on for a great conversation, for a laugh, and well, for anything else for which you might need him.

For a time it was more complex than that--he has actually appeared on this blog before, in my very first post, the friend who kissed me beside the pond when I was wearing a gold prom dress. Even though it turned out to be relatively brief, he became one of my first serious relationships, and it helped me to understand what a mature, respectful romantic relationship should be like (as opposed to my previous experiences with what turned out to be a complete scumbag). It ended due to indecision on my part, but somehow we still remained friends--and not just in name, but actual friends.

I remember long, lazy days in the sun at the beach, running back to his parents' beach house to escape afternoon thundershowers. There were late nights in various locations, groups of us sitting up and talking, scheming, planning to change the world. There was drama class and drama club, various plays and rehearsals, field trips and hilarity. There were the days we'd just run around town aimlessly, and then he'd drive me home, speeding like a madman in his teal Geo Metro around that sharp bend on Highway 144, racing to get me back in time for curfew. Later there were oyster roast reunions, where everything had changed for everyone, but somehow it all felt the same. I feel like I don't do it justice, but my memories of high school are memories with Matt. He was part of me growing up, and his friendship likely deeply affected who I became. I am having a hard time understanding that that is where he will have to remain from this day forward--in the past.

Those who know my left-leaning tendencies will understand why I am mad. There's also the greater existential anger--why the hell is it always the best people, the people with the most to offer, who die?

I guess that I should take comfort in the fact that he died doing what he wanted to do. I mean, hell, I am actually hugely impressed at how much Matt really lived in his twenty-nine years. He'd not only traveled all over the world, but he flew a lot of it himself. He worked his ass off and ended up with the job of his dreams--flying planes for the military--and in fact, he had one of the coolest-sounding jobs of anyone I have known. No matter where he went, he still found ways to stay close to his family. He found love (well, rediscovered might be more like it) with his wife, Theresa. A lot of people don't achieve all this in fifty to sixty years, let alone fewer than thirty.

But still, I mourn. I am sad that he won't be a parent--because he probably would have been a fantastic dad. The thought of what his family is going through makes me break down in tears. The realization that we'll never again reconnect on the phone or catch up during a trip home...well, it makes me feel like my youth is dead. And while I know that in the end we will honor his sacrifice in the name of service to country, tonight I feel like my country stole my friend from me. Call me an anti-patriot, but we're all entitled to our various stages of grief.

Matt had a better attitude than I do; in fact, I'm sure he would have argued heatedly with me over the above sentiment. When I spoke with his mom tonight, she said "I talked to him on the phone the other day, and he told me that he was happy that he was finally doing what he wanted to do. And he asked for us to send more pens and paper, things like that, because he said 'Each one of these that I hand out is one less person shooting at me.'" He believed he was helping change the world. I'm positive that he did help change the world. I just wish he was still here to help it continue to evolve for good.

This post is scattered, unfocused, poorly-constructed. I am unable to properly harness words to best convey what I am feeling tonight, so I'll lay it to rest with words from the Bard, from one of the plays Matt loved dearly: "Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Sunny with Passing Clouds

It's one of those rare, stunningly gorgeous spring days in Brooklyn, when the air is clear, the sky is blue, and the sun somehow highlights what green lives in this city and makes it glow in stark relief against the gray of concrete. I've been aimlessly wandering in my neighborhood most of the day, strolling through the farmer's market, perusing the flea market, petting strangers' dogs, and browsing shops I haven't visited in awhile. It's been a lovely, relaxing day and even though I grow increasingly more restless here, overall I have been content.

Of course two small things broke my heart today, and they stand in sharp contrast to the rest of the day. The first involved pigeons. Although everywhere else in the world I don't terribly mind pigeons, in New York City, I'm not-so-secretly disgusted by them. However, my distaste was trumped by the site of two pigeons under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. I happened to glance over and almost cried when I saw one pigeon gently preening another, which was lying dead on the ground. I don't know how many emotions birds experience, but witnessing this exhibition of something so much like grief in these two small creatures caused heartbreak number one.

Heartbreak number two came when wandering down Havemeyer Street while taking a different way back to my place. Amidst old, plain residences and construction frames on what will presumably become more "luxury" high rises, I noticed a sign with no-nonsense red lettering hanging out in front of a restaurant with open windows: "Kenny's Trattoria." Inside was decorated simply in brown wood. There was no one in the restaurant except a middle-aged man sitting in a chair, gazing outside, slowly rubbing his hands together, waiting. With little to no foot traffic in that part of the neighborhood, I wondered how long he'd been waiting on customers who hadn't come. The site of the empty tables and the faraway look on his face caused literal pain in my chest. How many days has he passed, waiting for customers to buy meals so he can pay his overhead? I hope not many; I hope that this is an unusual off day. But how many times does this happen to people who work hard and save to open a business and live the American dream, only to be disappointed? The near-continual shuttering of restaurants and businesses around me lets me know that the answer to this question is "all the time."

So that's really all--sunshine with a few passing clouds today for me. For others, I hope those clouds dissipate soon.

April Showers

I love a good thunderstorm. Growing up in Savannah, thunderstorms were a near daily occurrence in the summertime, and I always loved the sound of rain on the roof and windows, the play of light across the marsh, the dim lights in my house, the low rumbles interspersed with giant roars of thunder. Insanely as a kid I'd get a thrill from running around in the yard barefoot as they raged, until my mother would yell my first and middle names at me, telling me to get inside or else. Then I'd go take a quick hot bath, put on warm, dry clothes, and sit by the glass doors in the back or lie sprawled on my bed, watching, listening, thinking, savoring. To this day I can sometimes think of nothing more satisfying than getting in bed, opening the blinds, and listening to the rain on the glass and the wind in the trees.

Unfortunately there aren't as many thunderstorms in New York City, and most days that's probably a good thing given concrete's propensity to make it rain both up and down simultaneously. But tonight--tonight there is thunder, and rain, and wind. Now that I've taken off my soaked clothes and put on soft flannel pants and I've gotten in my bed, I feel...I suppose I just feel happy to be alive, and warm, and listening to the rain. This quiet moment alone has value beyond measure, and I am thankful for it, and for all the others I have left.

Gray Hair and Graves

I think my little brother's girlfriend is dying.

Actually, even though it's hard to say it about someone that young, my little brother's girlfriend is dying. She has Hodgkin's lymphoma--I'm not positive, but it sounds like stage III-IV--and her prognosis is not good. The other night, she came down with an infection, and if her mother (with whom she had to move back in) hadn't unexpectedly checked on her, the doctors said she probably wouldn't have made it through the night. She's been in the hospital more than out lately. She's twenty-one years old, with luminous brown eyes and a soft southern accent. She never got to go to college, because she's been sick so long. She's twenty-one years old, and she likely won't see twenty-two.

My brother has been spending more time in the hospital than any twenty-six-year-old ever should, waiting. I can only begin to imagine what he thinks as he waits, and just trying to get my head around it absolutely breaks my heart. Inevitably, he'll finally hear the words he's been dreading. He'll have to go home, drive home in his car like he did the day before when he knew he had at least one more day to talk to her, except it won't be the same at all. Then the next day he'll have to get up and figure out how he's going to make it to twenty-seven.

Not too long ago I was putting my hair in a ponytail and gasped as I revealed two bright silver hairs beneath the top layer of dark hair. I felt like it was the end of the world, like my youth was gone, like I may as well hang it up now and figure out how to be happy with my lot, now that I no longer had my pretty face and any time to waste. Right now I realize how absolutely ridiculous and melodramatic I was being. In fact, I'm lucky I get to live long enough to grow gray hair. I will most likely get to turn twenty-eight next month.

Eventually, each one of us will end up in a grave of one kind or another. Not all of us, though, will get the chance to find our gray hairs, to watch them slowly gain more ground on our scalps. We don't all get to accumulate the stories, the laughter and heartbreak, the knowledge and experience that adds up to wisdom, that accompanies those gray hairs. Sometimes it's hard to understand that you're fortunate until you take a moment to put things in perspective.

One day you'll be the mom on the online social network.

You know you've heard it before. One of your coworkers, from her cubicle five feet away screams "Oh my god, my mom just friend requested me on Facebook!" Your other five coworkers who sit within a ten foot radius join her and you in a mutual grimace and agree: "Ick." Then everyone joins in with bits of advice, such as "You'd better delete those pictures of yourself funneling beer in a baby pool of Jello," and "Dude, go ahead and make a 'family' list and put her on it and set the restrictions so she can't see ANYTHING, I mean she won't know the difference anyway--she's old."

Of course your gut reaction is "ick." After all, we are the generation that pioneered the social networking frontier. We found MySpace and Facebook and Friendster when they first launched, and we latched on. We put everything online, all those pictures of us partying like rock stars, thinking we looked so cool, or all those dimly-lit photographs of us giving bedroom eyes to the camera where we thought we looked so hot, disclosing on our profiles that we love spicy food and Australian men, and oh, that we're willing to try anything once. And then a few years later we realized that actually we looked like drunk twelve-year-olds and got tired of forty-year-old balding men or thug playas writing "Hey baby u look Hott i think u need 2 holla back" whilst masturbating over our pictures that feature us in the foreground and our dirty laundry in a pile in the background, and we yanked all those pictures and put up a few that made us still look fun, but more maturely fun, the kind of people who climb cliffs by the Mediterranean and then pose for photos fun. We still disclose online, but only just enough, chuckling over the actual twelve-year-olds who make all the same mistakes we once did. We add friends we haven't seen since middle school. We actually talk to some of those people online and realize occasionally that we both are no longer as dorky as we once were. We check our multiple social networking accounts at least once a day. We post on each others' walls to keep in touch, because regular e-mail just takes so much time. We have portions of an entire industries built around us--people get paid to keep our online lives running, other people get paid to figure out how they can use the information we willingly provide to target advertisements to our tastes. We're the generation that owns social media--we made it what it is, and to an extent, it made us who we are. So yes, we laugh (or scream and complain) when the older generation tries to get in on the action, to see what all the noise is about. I mean really, whose mom is really cool enough to even have any "about me" information to put on a profile?

But hang on a second there. As a whole, we may still be awesome and cool enough to add really amazing photos of us rocking out in whatever capacity, but have you noticed that some of us have (gasp) passed the thirty-year mark? That many of our friends are now starting to post pictures of their kids and pets and homes alongside those of themselves vacationing on verdant seasides? Well, since I mentioned them, what about those kids, the ones who ended up online before they even knew what the internet was (but who will never know a world without it)? Those kids are going to get older. They're going to become teenagers and young adults, and as we know firsthand, teenagers and young adults love social media, because it allows them to declare to the world "Hey, I'm here, and this is who I am." And one day, they too will create personal profiles on whatever social networking sites continue to thrive in the coming decades.

So the question is--what then? Who are we then? I mean, we made these sites what they are. Do we eventually drop off because the demands of a job and a family and full-on adulthood make it so that we no longer have time to write "Hey dude, thought about you today" on someone's wall? Do we drop off because spending time on MySpace or Facebook becomes considered immature? Do our kids create lists with restrictions that prohibit those included on them from seeing anything that says anything about who they think they are, and add us to those lists?

I think that realistically, our perceptions of social networking and family members' places on it will evolve as we continue to use them and our kids join in on the game. But I also that some things will never change--for the most part, when someone's parent friend requests her, that person will still yell and scream and tell her friends and coworkers, and have a silent moment of panic as she wonders what in hell she should do. Right now, we get to be the cool kids who complain, but in just a few short years, many of us are going to be the uncool parents.

I think the change in perspective will be painful for us in many ways. But then, I think getting older will continue to be painful in a lot of ways. Unfortunately there's no fighting it, so I suppose laughing at it helps some.