2 House, 2 Minute Limit



It is always wonderful and truly intriguing to me when something that begins as an assignment of sorts — and an assignment you want no part of — evolves into something you do want that all the while helps and heals and teaches. What began as “required journaling” evolved into what I am now thinking of as a memoir. My story is hardly interesting, it is actually quite mundane … especially my bookish and shy teen years through age 20. But what I am realizing a lot I think was always there but now it has smacked me in the face — how my latebloomerness was a blessing and a curse. My first love was a graduate student, a fiction writer … I was 20 and he was 25. I was an intern on a graduate student literary magazine and this gave me exclusive entry into the oh-so-exclusive “parlors” of graduate student writers for drinks and discussion … and often debauchery. This was the first time I “allowed” myself to socialize really. I felt comfortable in an academic environment … not the suffocating discomfort of my small northeastern Ohio town. It was all so freeing and so was feeling like a woman for the first time: I was desirable?

After “courting” me for months, telling me grandiose things about my talents, mind, and beauty I was convinced (stupidly) I was in love. At one of these parties, after I made my by then trademark Sapphire Bombay martini with 3 olives (two green and a black in the middle) he said that “kind of bye bye.” He told me he wanted me for my mind … the discussions he could have with me, how I was broadening his literary breadth of knowledge. But … he wanted a fellow graduate student (a very attractive but not so smart Shaker Heights trust fund girl) for her body. I asked him first if all this was because I hadn’t put out … but I told him I wanted to wait and make sure he meant what he had been saying to me. Sometimes I think I had more sense then than I do now at 30. Then I threw my freshly shaken martini in his face and left.

He followed me out, saying my name in that childish “oh come on” tone (which I found irritating and out of character for him). I think after following me about 2 houses, I was no longer worth the “fight.” What I need to understand now is why I still have that 2 house, 2 minute limit …

Andrew Wyeth has always been a comfort to me. I think it may be the rural, Ohio-esque landscapes and farmhouses of his work. He is able to find a beauty in deterioration. In his paintings “deterioration” becomes instead “reinstallation,” a “realization,” a constant “revision.” And I am sure you know where I am going now … like life.

Expect more Wyeth and more memoiric musings … lucky you.



Published in: on June 6, 2007 at 12:03 am  Leave a Comment  

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