My Awkward Valentine

For Valentine’s, I went out with some great girls for dinner and a movie, specifically sushi and a silent movie. I’ve been wanting to see The Artist since I first read about it back in November, but it’s been the waiting game until it made it’s way to less than metropolitan Texas. When one of my girl friends mentioned a few of us going to see it on V Day I thought this would be a great way to hang out with pals and keep my mind from the constant lurking to last year at this time… I’ve been doing that a lot since the month started.

Sushi was fabulous! Great food, better drinks, wonderful company. We all piled into my friend’s SUV and headed over to the one artsy fartsy theater I know I can count on for the non-mainstream flicks.

The Artist is really a very charming movie. Campy definitely, the characters are endearing, and the director did a superb job telling the story through the use of true facial expressions and acting – no dialogue to save a pretty face from a lack of talent. I found myself grinning through most of the picture. At one point I even thought this might be an interesting film to show my band kids to demonstrate the importance of music in cinema. I was having a good time.

The main character takes a turn for the worse as he finds his life not at all at a point his original path was leading. Down trodden and depressed that he has been forced from his lifestyle with the introduction of ‘talkies’, George Valentin returns to the home he previously almost burned down to retrieve a box. He sits down on the remnants of an arm chair, staring at the box, his loving dog by his side. George is not a very deep character. I’m imagining the fan letters in the box that are about to cheer him up and give him the strength and courage to take a risk and join this new fangled form of the silver screen.  As he opened the box, the course of my evening changed.

Elegantly nestled in white silk was a very small handgun.

My heart sank deep. I could feel my throat constrict. My cheeks burned. I squeezed my eyes tight, hoping against hope this was not headed where I saw it going.  What a horrible twist for such a lighthearted movie. At some point I realized no dialogue or sound effects were going to tell me if I was right. I opened my eyes to see the gun in his mouth, tears running down his face, tears that I realized mirrored my own. The soundtrack was silent, making this part of the movie I suppose more dramatic; I was trying so hard to keep my breathing under control. The little dog was jumping excitedly at George’s feet, begging him not to do it.

I couldn’t stand it. I closed my eyes again. This time I was met with an image I have successfully repressed for sometime. Please don’t do it.

I opened my eyes as George Valentin’s closed.  The title screen read, “BANG!!!” I held my breath.

The next scene was of the love interest, who has stolen her driver’s car to run to George’s aid, crashing into a tree, startling George and ripping him from his depression-fueled plans. The audience laughed at the clever twist. But I wasn’t laughing. I hadn’t taken a breath yet.

When I was fairly positive I could exhale without drawing attention to myself, I let out a heavy breath. I was so broken hearted. I tried to stay as quiet as I could, but I cried the rest of the movie. I’m honestly not sure exactly how it ends so I can safely save you a spoiler. As the credits started to roll, I took off my glasses and hoped that I was adequately rubbing clean my surely mascara streaked face. The four of us stood to walk out of the theater. I was silent. So were my friends. One of them rubbed my back on the way out, asked me if I was okay. Of course I was.

I’m really good at wearing my mask. I don’t think anyone has seen my breakdowns at school. I’m great at using humor and sarcasm to keep a conversation from getting too deep, at least around the subject of “how [I am] doing”. The problem with wearing a mask for any length of time is you start believing it to be true. And I said, “yeah” when she asked me if I was okay.

I made it out of the theater as quick as I could because a second longer and I would have cried right there in front of everyone, but I made it outside just in time for some raindrops to hopefully camouflage the tears I couldn’t control. I truly think that if it weren’t February 14^th, two days from the day that changed everything, I could have held my composure. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s true.

The trip back to our cars was silent. I’m really good at being the center of a conversation with nothing to say. There have been lots of those this past year. Ordinarily I think I would have felt awkward, but instead I just felt sad and empty. I doubt that’s the response the director expected from his silent era throw back. I’m pretty sure my friends felt awkward. Sorry about that…  By the time I was in my own car, the flood gates emptied the emotion I was trying so hard to contain.

I’m home. I’m safe. I’m snuggling with dogs. I’m cried out. I’m really tired. But purging my thoughts into the written word is my choice of therapy right now, so I’ll end my first and awkward Valentine’s with a blog. 

A Decade Revisited

I realize I'm a day early, but my mind is thinking of it now, so I'll explore it now.

I really can't believe that September 11th was 10 years ago. I, like most of you, remember exactly where I was at the exact moment I heard. I was a sophomore in college, in the shower of my dorm, getting ready for my 9:30 Geosciences class. The shampoo was in my hair when I heard a girl run in to tell her roommate, who was brushing her teeth, that we had been bombed... well not bombed, but hit by a plane. I heard this and couldn't understand what exactly that meant... We'd been hit by a plane? The girl was almost unintelligible because she was talking so fast, but my first thought was 'Are going to war?' followed immediately by 'Are we going to start a draft?' I was thinking solely of my boyfriend at the time, wondering if he would be sent away to some foreign country against his will because someone hit us with a plane... I still didn't understand what that meant.

I rinsed out my hair, didn't bother with conditioner or anything else (which if you've read my curly hair page you know is just wrong), and wrapped myself up in a towel so I could go into the commons room on my floor where probably 20 girls were crowded around the big screen TV watching the news. Everyone was silent. I was only in there for about 10 seconds before they replayed the video we've all seen probably 1000 times too many - the first plane hitting the tower. I was not the only one seeing it for the first time, and we were differentiated from the rest by our sudden gasps and subsequent holding of breaths. The others merely continued watching in shocked silence. It wasn't long after that the silence turned to tears for many of the girls as we watched the second plane hit and the reports of the other two rogue planes were linked to it all. Contrary to what we all quietly hoped, this was not a horrible accident, and the world would be eternally different.

Not a week before, I had been talking with my boyfriend and some of our friends about how every generation has their war. We wondered if we were finally at a point in civilization that our generation would skip that. It's funny how the universe chooses to wait for those "knock on wood" phrases to escape our lips before acting... not that I truly believe that conversation was the catalyst for a decade of tragedy, but on more than one occasion that day I eerily thought back to our words just days prior.

Gas jumped 80 cents to $1.88 in a few hours. I remember this because, unlike the mob of crazy people that instantly decided they needed to stock up on gas, I was running on fumes and had to wait in line for more than half an hour just to fill up. I didn't have a cell phone to talk to my parents while I waited, so I was forced to listen to the radio reports and replays of the mornings events. It was bizarre and surreal and more than my 19 year old frame of mind knew how to process.

As I consider where I was 10 years ago, I have thought a lot this week about where I have been in the 10 years that followed. First of all, you know you are a full-fledged adult when you have an abundance of clear memories from 10 or more years ago. :) I feel like even though we label childhood and adolescence as "the formative years", the past decade has shaped me in ways the first two could not even reference.

I saw my first national tragedy, had my heart completely broken for the first time, and took my first stab at the reinvention of Darcy. I took on my first students, long before a piece of paper called me a teacher, and realized reinvention was merely growth. I got my first B, took my first (and last) attempt of holding two jobs, and got fired for the first (and last) time. I experimented for the first (and also last) time with dying my hair, and although I will probably never do that again until I encounter more than the occasional grey hair, I do make a good red head. I went to Europe for the first time, following that up with 4 other trips, and made my first legitimate effort at using a foreign language for real. I got my first tattoo and pierced my nose for the first time (oh yes, there will be a second... even if it's when I retire). I accepted my first "real" job, lived alone for the first time, and bought my first new car. I had my first experiences of dating as a working adult, got married (for the first time...), and took out our first mortgage. I got my first dog, decided a first wasn't enough, and got a second... and a third. I went to the Smithsonian for the first time, won my first contest, and painted the first of many walls. I learned to make my first crochet chain. I got my first power tool (a circular saw) for Christmas. I put down my first pet. I learned for the first time just how untrusting one can be of "the system". I lost my first husband and learned a whole lot of firsts with that. I bought my first DSL camera and took the first picture where I thought I knew what I was doing. I learned to make my first t-shirt necklace and bought my first voluntarily-purchased dress. I, for the first time, am feeling pressure in my job that I honestly need help to alleviate. AND... I saw my first muscle in my arm the other day. :)

The last decade has left me at the point that I actually feel like I kinda know who I am, what I stand for, and maybe more importantly what I absolutely do NOT stand for. I realize that virtually none of this has anything to do with the actions of terrorists, but it is where my mind takes me as I contemplate one of only a handful of days I will never forget.

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Project for the day: unpack everything I packed when I though my house might burn down and pack up a lot of what I decided was okay to burn to give to Goodwill.

I am the master of my fate

Poetry is rarely my outlet, but I serendipitously found this poem last night that, while slightly more graphic that I would necessarily write, embodies much of what I have found in myself.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

                  -William Ernest Henley