Images like this, littered through my daily e-readings, only remind me how horribly I miss Elisabeth. I miss her form slipping through the halls of the hallowed Seattle home. It is a great ache that I could never begin to describe, but foolishly try to convey in text messages to her.
I miss your presence.
You. A beautiful summation of immeasurable little acts and puzzle pieced things.
A self-crafted siren, stirring such intellectual charm into crashing waves.
For my birthday she offered to get me a tattoo. An act that I had not considered seriously in a large number of years simply because I have never really thought of where to start or end. I had never been gifted it either. So I booked an appointment over at Slave To The Needle.
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
Text. Which I was told may not convey the immensity that I wanted to accomplish mostly because others would have to *blink* *blink* read it. I think the artist was initially driving me towards an image. I'll take suggestions from those of you more experienced with any suggestions you may have about this matter.
Friday I made my way out of work early and into downtown to return a few things before the holiday madness. It was a quick jaunt in and then back out over to Fremont. I met coworkers and friends of coworkers. All terribly boring, intelligent people with math degrees and the inability to communicate with other human beings. The social awkwardness reminded me of party's at Atomicant's except there was less talk about buttsecks.
From there I made my way to LoFi in time to meet former coworkers for a going away party. Threw around enough sentimentality to make the guest of honor break down in tears. Stayed past all of them moving about to the vintage Reggae the DJ was spinning.
I then crawled my way up to 13 coins to grab a rare fillet and linguine w/clams. The restaurant was packed with the finest of sleeze and perhaps mafioso. I am fairly certain I was seated at the counter next to a charming girl and droll boy that were in the throes of an evening of "Girl Friend Experience." On the way out to catch the last bus I saw more hookers than I have ever seen in Seattle. The cherry: a girl running near Denny, into downtown, under the lights of the Pink Elephant with an exposed, thonged rear. She skittered away as quick as a rat in downtown LA.
The next morning I got a haircut and the hairdresser gave me her number. She said I should call sometime if I wanted to get a drink. A drink, she said, but not a date. I went on an interview at my last two jobs that started this way; get to know you, see if your expectations meet my expectations. It's the new non-interview, interview.
The rest of the weekend was a much sorrier affair. I lounged about taking care of holiday cards and wrapping presents but ultimately spent it missing Elisabeth.
Next week, starting Tuesday, I find myself in Los Angeles for a quick three days (22-25). Enough time to my family to take attendance. The trip is ultimately shorter than most because I am likely going to be back in January for my Grandfather's birthday. If someone here reads this and wants to spend a late evening (I can sneak out after my family goes to sleep) together, I'm all for it.
Once you have acquired the data, you are done with it once and for all: You then either know it or you don't.
Discovering things about life doesn't fit that pattern, however. Whether you call them "truths" or something else, learning them involves discovering them again and again in different but similar contexts. Only then does the essential pattern imprint itself on your consciousness-although even then, it is dismayingly easy to lose sight of the pattern and be unable to find it again.
Linguine with clams used to be my favorite food.
I'd love your presence on January 4; email to follow.
Heartache is awful. So sorry, dear boy, so very sorry.