Hey Lucky,
I just had a really sweet banana and now I’m drinking some really cold water, and listening to iTunes on shuffle.
Dianna Krall-I’m Thru With Love, is the song that is playing.
Quite ironic I think–and you know what else is ironic? Well, do you?
I’ll tell you anyway–because I believe that there may be a thing or two you’re not familiar with, and It is my passion to fill people in on things that they do not know provided I do know it well enough to be filling any gap in ignorance they might posses.
Life is ironic, Lucky. And in particular, mine seems to be full of strange karmic coincidences.
The first example of this is: a phone call I received last week while at the Education Place with Edda.
Before I get into the details, it will help to know that my middle name may or may not be Lola, but for all intents and purposes, we’re going to go ahead and use it as the working title.
Right, so–last week while at the Education Place I had a cell phone conversation that went a bit like this:
stranger: Hello? Lola?
At this inquiry from a strange voice bearing an unfamiliar phone number, I am taken aback. I think: “well Lola is a part of my name, isn’t it?” But then sensibility kicks in and I quickly decide that this person must be asking for another Lola, because I’ve never introduced myself as Lola, or even–Stephanie Lola Locum, for that matter. So after hesitating for a moment or two respond:
“I’m sorry you have the wrong number.”
I hang up–only to have my cell phone ring another time, caller ID bearing the same unfamiliar number; after answering, it proves to be the same strange caller.
stranger: Hello Lola, what time are you coming to Sandy Beach?
I’m taken aback for the second time. Sandy Beach is where I grew up. It is there my dad would take me to the beach every Sunday, it is there I lived alone with my mother in a large house perched on top of a hill overlooking the choppy blue waves and pebbly strand an arm’s length away for six years. I knit my brow with confusion but hold fast to my conviction that I am not Lola.
me: I’m sorry miss, but you have the wrong number.
But, it turns out–perhaps she had the right person.
After ending the call for the second time, I turn to Edda and explain to her what the calls were about. We share laughs, and our marvel at the incident is a passing feeling.
The Sunday following that phone call–which was yesterday, I ended up going along with my father and brother to Sandy Beach where my father usually jogs on a Sunday. He had stopped when the price at the pumps escalated, but on Saturday he decided that he missed it, and since the prices have dropped significantly, he decided he would go. My brother and I being the photography enthusiasts we are decided we’d drag ourselves out of bed before dawn and go with him to Sandy Beach to take pictures along the strand as the sun rose.
It was beautiful and calming and relaxing, and in the best company–my brother’s.
It was only this morning while showering did the irony of that situation hit me with full force.
A complete stranger called my number, called me by my middle name, and asked me when I was planning on visiting my childhood home–a place I did end up visiting shortly after the conversation, and in what has been a really long time since I’ve gone back.
Lucky, even you can admit that this is a little odd, can’t you? Regardless of the fact that it has nothing what so ever to do with you, you can see and admit that, right?
Well let me tell you, I don’t know what to think of it. As a lover of mystical things and a believer in fate and karma and all that Jazz–as someone who spends a significant amount of time in her own head–this is not just mere coincidence to me.
And as if my convictions weren’t enough, another unusual thing happened to me this morning when I settled into my infamous early morning empty classroom–you know the one Lucky, where I go in the early morning and listen to music that reminds me of you and cry shamelessly and hopelessly and fully in pain.
I call it Room 02.
This morning, I did not cry in Room 02, though I do admit steering clear of anything I thought may indeed trigger tears and thus unleashing a gust of wind toward my precariously stacked house of cards.
Instead of sitting in the second desk from the front to the extreme right of the room–right next to the door–like I usually do, I–for some reason–decided to skip that chair and sit in the third desk instead. I sat there for a while, looking through my notebook, trying to revise.
This wasn’t really working, and so I dug around and found my iPod. I selected a playlist I made appropriately entitled: “Feel Good.”
There were no songs that could remind me of you there Lucky, none.
Anyway, I don’t know what led me to this point–I suspect normal human motor skills– but in a moment of no intention, I glanced over at the desk beside me and there it was, bright and blue and screaming: LUCKY.
That’s right–your name. Now, your name is not a particularly popular one in Wonderland, but there it was, etched in blue pen’s ink into the desk next to me. Not covertly mind you–this signage was a beacon. Defacement at its boldest and most prominent.
My jaw remained slack for what I could only imagine was a very long time. I could not turn away from it. I could not believe it either–not even with the evidence so plain.
I held my breath and anticipated tears. I didn’t hear the music anymore, I didn’t see anything in that room but that single desk with your name scribed in plain view–seemingly just for my gratification.
I did not cry, at most I yawned without trying to stifle it. I felt guilty. I felt like here is the universe trying to send my clues, and all I am doing about it is yawning, when just days ago I was up in arms about our situation. Mentally and physically broken down by heart break.
When did the tears dry up? I don’t feel like I don’t want to cry–I feel like I can’t anymore.
I have created a resolve, and my body has welcomed it–at least, my tear ducts have with arms wide open.
I’m not going to fool you Lucky–I have not completely stopped thinking about you. But now my thoughts about you are panicky–in a different sort of way.
Instead of lambasting myself constantly, wondering what you’re doing, if you’ve sent me a message, if you’re thinking about me–I am lambasting myself because I am not thinking those things. It feels bad and unnatural that I am not thinking about you like I became accustomed to, and whenever I catch myself not engaging in agonizing thoughts about you, I question myself as to why that is.
Does the fact that I am trying to disengage, and seemingly achieving it mean I did not love you to begin with? That I was fooled by my own feelings? Does it mean that what I felt was not real If I can make up my mind to let it go?
Should I talk about my feelings for you in the past tense? Is that reallu how I feel about it, as history?
The truth is Lucky, just thinking like this and asking myself these questions are making me feel weak and doubtful, making me tear up, and making me feel more like my old self–and is this what I want?
It would seem so. It would appear that I made the agony a comfort zone.
I have to take a deep breath and disengage. I need to not ask if what I felt for you was real. I need to not make it about you, anymore.
But, when I make it about me--and shun you–I feel guilty for it.
Jane Eyre is on my reading list for Prose Fiction, and though I have already read it, I have decided that I will read it again, especially since I have to read Wide Sargasso Sea.
Today I had an unusual experience–beyond the other unusual experiences I have already mentioned that is.
In the vehicle I took home, I find the driver was of a different sort. The norm is for them to try and squish four persons into the back seat when the legal capacity is three–it is also basic consideration for your paying costumers’ comfort.
This driver however, actually refused to admit pairs of people who approached the vehicle while myself and another passenger was already seated in the back. This shocked me–but by this instant, shocking situations were becoming more usual than unusual.
What further shocked me about this gentleman was the mouth he had on him. In the vehicle of only female passengers he cursed at the slightest occurence of foul driving, at times it seemed that if the sun was too hot he’d use lewd language to not only audibly but quite loudly express his distaste.
I thought it was disrespectful, but then…in the other instant I tried to look at it objectively–you know: from all angles.
He may be a genuinely respectful man who would rather look out for the comfort of his passengers than accept an extra fare at the expense of it. However, it could simply be a bad day for him–I know all about those: bad days…bad weeks, months…years.
It wouldn’t be fair for me to then assume that this man was disrespectful because of one particular action, and it wasn’t safe to assume that he was noble because of another single action either.
So really, I figure…he’s just human. And as far as humans go they can either be all bad, some good, or a little bit of both.
It occurred to me after I got off at my stop, Lucky, that I think far too much about the most irrelevant things–but I had this thought only after I realised that there is no such thing as objectivity anyway.
It is impossible to see anything from ‘all angles.’
The best we can do is be fair–giving merit to all accounts; exploring issues with the absense of implicit or explicit bias.
Well Lucky, I must say that despite the pressing questions that linger–I don’t feel compelled to check my e-mail at twenty minute intervals, and I don’t hope every text message or phone call is from you.
That is just the fact.
But, as objectivity is and must always be the unattainable goal–I have to pay close attention to the part of me that is worried that I am not worried. The part of me that is disappointed that I am succeeding at this.
The part of me, that clearly does not like me, and is for everyone else but Stephanie Lola Locum.
The part of me that makes being me difficult and trying and unusual.
I am going to make an informed assumption that you are much better able at ignoring yourself; that little voice, you know? your conscience.
And perhaps the people you love, too.
I hope you’re good lucky, really…I do. I always do.
with love,
Stephanie.
