con / artistry

I was cleaning house (virtual house) when I realized that I have been, for the most part, doodling here for the past seven years. Some have been less religiously than others. Not to say that con/artistry has been here for seven, but I have. From the ol’ showme server to blogspot before I shelled out $8.99 and tax to put my name here.

Meanwhile, the world exploded from all around me–Xanga, MySpace, and Facebook. I was a snob. Refused a little piece of theirs for my little piece. I still am, I guess.

I haven’t been faithful these last couple. I’ve diddled elsewhere. Mostly work. A little play. I feel like I’ve forgotten a lot. But it’s like riding a bike, they tell me, so I hop back on. Only, I don’t think I have anywhere to go. But the weather is nice, so here I am.

I remember seeing C again a while back, and she told me that I hadn’t changed at all. I hadn’t? I had to pull up the archives to be sure. I don’t remember the person that wrote all these things. I was so silly then. And now, I am…silly still. I stay up much too late. I can only drink half a can of soda at a time due to an anomaly of ridiculously small bladder size. I still haven’t figured out mascara.

But oh, I’ve fallen in love. I’ve held a heart in my hand. And I’ve let go. I’ve seen first and last breaths. I’ve flown across a nation and cross bridges–of both highways and people. I’ve found a way to live on my own and discovered a way to share my life. I cut my hair. I’m now growing it out again. Perhaps I will cut it again. I have a dog. I have a house. I sing.

Seven years. And perhaps, if I am so blessed, seven more.

I could hardly keep my attention on the matter at hand–I was so googly-eyed. A couple of firemen had brought in a kid to the ER for acute management of something or another. The kid was fine. And so were the firemen.

I mean, is there a reason wear shirts so tight that the slightest flexion would result in swooning women? And why are they always a little dirty and sweaty? I am embarrassed to admit that I find the suspenders a little sexy. A lot sexy. The younger of the two smiled in my vicinity, and I almost bow-chica-bow-wow‘d aloud. I kid you not. And all the sudden, I’m back in the fifth grade again, giggling and pinching butts.

Happy birthday to you, Mrs. Parker.

They were withdrawing care on T, and next door, M got her second chance. She was getting a new heart. For him, there was too much broken to fix. I watched the tears from room to room, completely different tears. When my own came, I couldn’t remember who I was crying for. Or what I was feeling. I was so tired, and so was T, and so was M. Eventually, the monitors went flat on T, a long sorrowful tone. And M, oh, she was so strong.

It’s interesting, with heart transplants. It can take a while before the new heart becomes innervated–connected to the brain, that is. So it beats on its own. It doesn’t race with love. It doesn’t stop with heartbreak. It is a like a drum, steady and strong, mindful of nothing but itself. An island.

My own is not such.

I’ve been here for 18 months, but I don’t really know my neighbors. I guess part of me imagined potlucks and barbecues and chats over the fences. The real me works 80 hours a week and goes home only to sleep. I see them occasionally, keeping up the lawn or organizing festive get-togethers, and I get a little pang of envy.

Steve knows them. He says hello on his way home from work. The other day, one of the neighbors helped him clear the driveway with his snowblower–which by the way everyone has but us. We’re cheap. Anyway, I feel like evil twin that lives in the basement, hidden from public shame. I’m not fit to be introduced. Granted, Steve is much more social than me. He always has been. He strikes up conversations. He nods and laughs in all the right place. I struggle to stay awake. It’s so much effort.

I rationalize. I have nothing in common with my neighbors. I am a young professional. They’re older and married with a family. They have SUVs. Then, a couple weeks ago, I saw a campaign sign out in their yard. Sigh. I suppose we’re not really that different. At our district caucus later, I didn’t even recognize my neighbors when Steve said hello. They had brought cookies. I brought a book to bury my nose in. It was a good novel, but Steve met a real life astrophysicist. I’m not even sure what that is.

I suppose I won’t be here much longer. My next step may take us far from here; I haven’t decided yet. But when I leave, it will be like I was never here.