Amethyst Gardens and Bottled Water
I went to see an author speak a few days ago named Kate. She spoke of the goal of writing as “finding the point of friction between your personal truths and those of your audience”—otherwise there is no Point, nothing to Gain from reading any Thing.
Kate spoke in a cramped iridescently lit auditorium on campus that smelled of sweat, amethyst gardens and bottled water. She radiated eloquence, spoke in dadaisms and looked remarkably similar to a girl that I used to fuck… Or at least what the girl I used to fuck would look like at age 40. Gorgeous, still.
I found myself thinking of what I knew to be true, which, at the moment, isn’t a whole lot. I know certain things like What and Who I love and have loved and I know that I am completely and utterly confused by love itself.
I have been in three hemp-bracelet sharing relationships in my life:
Sara was a cute, innocent and fun relationship before slowly cascading into unnecessary seriousness. I dated this girl all throughout high school, my angel: she was fair skinned, freckled, and tiny—I could put my hands around her waist, thumbs and middle fingers touching and her head came to the spot on the inside of my shoulder which we cutely named “the nook.” There were no misgivings or “trying too hard” and things were always the way they were supposed to be. We watched Southern Maine from her bedroom window in the astounding beauty of each season four times over. And then it was over. Just like that, and no real reason explaining it either—a terrible harbinger. She was pretty. She was nice. But there was something missing: there was no excitement back then, just waking up in the same persons arms morning after morning with love and life and light. As we grew old, we grew apart.
Natasha began as a way to fill the void left behind by Sara. She was as exciting as she was beautiful and she liked to party, which fit my mindset quite well at the time. Three years later on a sticky summer day I would ask her to marry me.
But I didn’t take things as seriously at first, which is why I began seeing Caitlyn on the side. Caitlyn was was older than I was, in every way, and had been a longtime crush. She was a model and a manager of an elegant boutique on Newbury St. with a brownstone on Beacon and there was a platinum aura about her and she jingled whenever she moved slightly so as to drink from her wine glass or to ash her cigarette due to an elaborate collection of bracelets and rings and necklaces. It was a horrible thrill to have a mistress. She knew I was dating another girl and she tried her best to convince me to leave her. When she alluded to having children and moving away to be together, I got scared of the responsibility and the implications. I got scared of growing up, I guess.
I am of a simple and stupid mind and of an atavistic nature. I chose Natasha, and the engagement ring I slipped on her finger that hot sticky summer day was mailed back to me in a plain envelope with no note. Over; just like that.
My personal truths don’t mean shit.