2006-05-22T04:19:00.000-07:00

Hoog bezoek. Dit koppel boerenzwaluwen (voor de vogelaars: ze zijn te herkennen aan hun roodgekleurde hals) was op zoek naar een plek om een nieuw nest te bouwen. De bedstee beviel ze wel, stil, droog en warm. Met zachte drang (we zijn Verdonk niet, maar in dit geval wel vastbesloten) hebben we ze de deur uitgewerkt. Uitgezet, zogezegd. Op de planken vloer voor de bedstee ligt een zwaluwpoepje.

2006-05-18T17:02:00.000-07:00

Knife in my back, Dagger through my heart
The much enjoyed absence of Buck Nutter has come to an end. I've been away being devastated in my real life. Let me put it this way, to me right now, heartbreak is a pair of tall pink sandals and nothing personal.

Shawn, my ex-girlfriend, recently E-mailed and Blogged me chirpy little messages. Something about her missing me and how jealous Wolverine is of me. Wolverine is my buddy, my friend, my good pal. A guy I've known for years. A guy I love and respect. Shawn, well, she was once the light of Buck Nutter's world before that world went dark.

I called her, reluctantly. Shawn is fickle sunshine. You're everything to her for about twenty minutes, then it's the next person's turn. She's always been like that. She asked me to come over. Her tone didn't sound as chipper. Something told me to go over and find out what it was all about. Like I always do, I was listening for what wasn't there and my bait got a nibble.

I guess I should've listened to the voices inside my head that were wisely screaming no louder than the voice that said yes. Why do we consciously hurt ourselves even when we subconsciously know we're trying to protect ourselves? Do we ever really listen to reason? I guess humans have native stupidity. I sure do.

Shawn looked good. She had longer hair and a deeper tan. Still skinny and kind of bony. But there was something different about her I couldn't explain, that is until later. Wolverine was there, and I guess the first thing was that was a big give-away. A dead-giveaway, in fact. Only when the emotions are yours, however, you're blinded by them because you're drowning in them. Just because you're still human doesn't mean you're not smart. It just means your view will be very skewed.

How it even came up, I don't know. It's weird. I've tried and tried to remember what it was Shawn had told me she wanted to talk to me about. I still can't remember. Why I didn't question Wolverine even being there, I'll never know. I guess I felt too comfortable and was too compromised by how comfortable I was with them.

Somehow it finally got around to the real why. One night while Shawn was still seeing me, Wolverine came up with the most brilliant pick-up line a man has ever uttered. He asked her to spend the night because he was afraid of the dark. That's right. That line went out with Thomas Edison, but no, he sprung it on her and she realized she couldn't resist him. If I was a woman, I know I would've gotten naked with a guy who had summoned such brilliance from within. That's a keeper, all right. Forgive me while I gag and gag obnoxiously.

Shawn didn't leave me last February because I was clipping her wings and pinning her butterfly torso onto too many dart boards for target practice. She left me because for a few months, she and Wolverine, my friend, my buddy, my pal, were openly friends and lovers on the sly. They've been on the down low. Nobody knew about them. Nobody. Not even me. Especially not me.

They ought to work for the CIA. They're incredible at this game. Both of 'em. Eventually, they'll probably do each other in simply based on their level of skill alone. But I'm not hoping for that. A car accident involving both, well, that's a different story ... I guess I should feel good that the others didn't know, either. But oddly it doesn't even matter. If everyone had known and hidden it from me, would it change anything? I doubt it. I don't know. I don't care to know, either. That kind of worries me, too.

I realized in those moments that truth is often painful, frequently devastating, and always awkward. There was Shawn, crying, trying so hard to hold it together while I slowly realized what was going on. I remember looking at her tall pink sandals and thinking how Pepto pink they were, how tall they were. Isn't the whole point of sandals not to have uncomfortable heels? Instead of looking at the face I once loved, the face that could smile and make my day only a few short weeks ago, I was looking at how tall her sandals were. That's weird. I guess that's the stuff that keeps us sane in moments when the whole world as we've known it has gone insane. Or maybe, just gone.

Then there was Wolverine, who couldn't face me. When he did, he was crying. It's so hard to see a grown man cry. It's obscene, really, like you're watching your mother get naked in the bathroom or something. He turned to me with red, drooping eyes and said barely above a whisper, "It's not personal, man. It's not personal."

How can it not be personal? It was my life. It was my girlfriend. He was my buddy, pal, friend, amigo. How can all that not be personal? That's what I want to know. Like I'm going to act like it's happening to some guy in the apartment complex down the street? I've always thought rubber-necking at wrecks is the ugliest face of leering humans. I consider telling the person you've just betrayed with another person he loved that it wasn't personal to be comparable.

If you're going to be my friend and have me love you, if you're going to bed my woman and have her fall in love with you, at least say it's so damn personal, a bullet straight through my cranial lobe would not send a clearer or more resounding message. Good lord, give me that! Please, please let this somehow be about me. Some ancient psychological childhood trauma in which big guys with brown hair and long eye lashes inflicted some bizarre form of pain or revenge. Just let it be about me a little bit.

I left and ended up at the beach. I laid there for a few hours, flat on my back, listening to the Flock of Seagulls (the band, not the band of birds who desperately wanted me off their beach) and that Beach Boys' song I still can't decide if I like, I Wasn't Made for These Times. How fitting that was. I reminded myself of a bad John Cusack movie. I couldn't feel anything. I still can't.

The numbness is weird and painful. It's the Novocain before the toothache. It's all that stuff inside of you that is there, that you can't hide from, just waiting for the moment when your plastic armor melts like you know it is going to. A timebomb. How scary. How truly scary we humans really are when we flip ourselves inside out and have a look.

I'm still at that weird twilight place right now. But this is good. It's healthy. It's teaching me to be humble and not so insanely arrogant about my abilities to judge people. I used to say I don't know anything. Now I can say it with truth and conviction. It made me realize a few things. Your whole life can change in a matter of minutes. While it's going on, you're aware of really weird things that sort of distract you but help you from feeling the full impact of the blow.

I've still got questions. Oh, tons of questions. I guess I'll have to wait until I die to ask God. If the former love of your life was not who she said she was, is she still the former love of your life or just a really good liar? Does it still count you thought so at the time? Were you in fact in love with only an illusion, not a human after all? These questions keep turning over in my mind. No wonder I'm not sleeping. I've forgotten where the off switch is I'm so used to remote control and auto pilot. How did someone so conniving learn to convey such convincing goodness so impeccably? I'm still wondering.

Okay, even then some. If I'm a GWO, shouldn't I have other options that weigh as significantly? Well, I guess I'm an imposter in the ranks of the babe brethren. I'm turning in my cad card, gals. Sorry, I just thought I was, guys. No harm. No foul. You guys can all go to Scores without me. I think I'm just a weird case of a guy people think is a GWO who is really just another sad loser possibly a few blogs away from dangerous Dungeons and Dragons territory. Harry Potter, help me!

One of the worst parts? I'm completely over Shawn, now I have to relive the trauma of the unfinished business surrounding our break-up. That's annoying, but it doesn't mean I still love her, because absolutely I don't. What I regret now is I can't even respect her, and that hurts. I've always wanted to respect my ex-girlfriends even when they haven't shown me the same courtesy.

The funny thing is, Shawn didn't break my heart like Wolverine and I never slept with Wolverine. Even if I was gay, Wolverine wouldn't be my type. Too emotionally rigid. Not insanely emotionally porous and labile like Charlie and I, the Ass Clown White Man Posse (also known lovingly by some of color as the Double Peckers, but that's another story for another time. All I will say is God bless people of color who speak the truth).

I was never emotionally intimate in the same way with him as I was with Shawn. Yet, ironically, I was hurt less by her than I was him because I kind of expected her to do this in a weird way, while I would have never expected it of him. Why is that? Do we really believe our platonic friends love us more than our lovers do? What does that say about how men and women really feel about each other? What does that say about the nature of friendship or the relationships between men and women?

My mind is still reeling. I'll get better. All of this is serving a purpose. I'll definitely never invest in tall pink sandals and I will always take my hurts and pain very personally, the more personally, the better. If I've got to suffer, they're mine, goddammit, hands off! That is guaranteed. The rest? Who knows. I'm winging it. If anyone wants to anonymously share their pain, their own stories of heartbreak survival, it would be much appreciated. In fact, time honored Heartbreak Survival Lists from those who've been to this strange, dank, dark place would be a nice touch. Hey, they last longer than flowers and they cost less than chocolate to send.

My thanks to the Three Minxes (Jen, Mac, and Rebecca) of South Bend Over for all their kindness always. The world is truly a better place having you three in it. Don't ever let anyone convince you otherwise. Not that they would, but just in case.

Never fear, this dreary saga will soon play out and I'll be back to adding to my list for Jen-Jen. It rains, but it doesn't always flood. When I was a kid, I remember it thundered, but the storm never came. Maybe that's how this pain inside of me will ultimately play out. It could happen.

I've started to feel better already. A little girl came up to me in a restaurant. I know I looked like a big junkie. No sleep, no combed hair, long coat on, my eyes bloodshot and swollen. I had sandy boots, too. When I wear hiking boots on the beach, I always get sandy boots and that's tres annoying. I've never really liked sand anyway because it's one of those natural resources that always likes you way too much for how little time you spend together.

She wanted me to pick out a shell from her collection that was supposed to be me. I picked out a broken one and realized I really couldn't talk at that point. It seems children always understand that or at least are honest about not understanding it. The little girl grimaced and tossed that one back in her sack, then grinned and handed me her rubber star fish.

Of course she took the rubber star fish back within minutes, but still. A rubber star fish in the place of a broken sea shell. I kind of like that, I guess. It sounds deep and meaningful. I'm sure it'll mean some shit to Bryce. I mean, only to Bryce. He thinks the whole cosmos whisper his name and only talk to him. If they're not talking to him, they're talking about him.

Oh, how we love our emotionally needy boy. He bathes in that emotional neediness. He eats it and Wheaties for breakfast. When you're down, I highly recommend a friend you frequently can't stand as your constant companion. He'll snap you right back into your old bastard self within a couple of hours. I owe you big time, man. You, Charlie, Curl, Squid, Woodman, and Spic, what one helluva crew you guys are. The funniest, funkiest white dudes on the planet. I love hanging out with you guys and studying you all the time with my microscopic contacts.

It's all cool, too, because right now, I want the cosmos to leave me alone for a little while so I can think of some stuff to do with all these great psychological scars and emotional glitches and gluttons I've now got a belly full of. I can still laugh when Curly sighs and says in his best deadpan voice, "God, it must suck for you deep people, huh?" Yeah, Curl, it can and does. Nothing fooling about that, bro.

A part of me wants to tell Shawn and Wolverine, my friend, my buddy, my pal, that I miss the people I always thought they were, but I won't anytime soon. Some things are better left unsaid. The rest of the story, well, that'll just write itself. Life can be painful in all the right places sometimes. And this, too, shall pass. It always does. Just give it time to work its glory.

My one and only special girl, Jen-Jen, be careful in Chicago. Have a freaky-deaky time, Bootylicious! It ain't the windy city for nutting, so let me blow you ... A KISS! Come back and tell me all about, but only the really good, dirty parts.

Are you taking Tater with you? What about T Bone or Hotness? Can any of them fit into your suitcase? (But what inquiring minds really want to know is if you can fit your fist into any of THEIR mouths?)

To anyone who has suffered through this to the very end, God bless you. May the Gods smile upon your future children and grant you years of serenity and happiness. I'll vouch that you deserve it and a new pair of eyes.

Be good. Be better at it.

2006-02-26T05:03:00.000-08:00

be still

2005-12-01T00:32:00.000-08:00

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