Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, August 24, 2004 Relationship in the Dumpster
He's gone.
One more trip to O'Hare.
One last painful, tearful good-bye.
British Airways took him away from me. (I've always hated Brit Air.)
It's over.
Of course I won't let him hurt me again. (She said all pumped up on pride over the insinuation that she keeps allowing him to hurt her. After all, she could have and should have said no to his visit in the first place. But she didn't so she's clearly weak and knows no shame. How dare you bandy about those insinuations and make her summon false pride?)
All I need or want now is to get through days able to do my job at some acceptable capacity (not too difficult in my current job), manage my evenings so they contain very involving activities (like making myself clean the closets, really clean the closets, and maybe paint the entire apartment while I'm at it, too), get a few hours of sleep at night and do it all again. I just need to survive, merely exist. Breathe and sleep. My two goals in life.
Don't get me wrong. It's not because I am driven to prove something, anything. Or because I am a survivor by character. Or that I am seeing this time as introspection and personal growth. All of those things are fine and dandy for other people, and I would highly respect other people who try to get into those mindsets. I've gone down those roads. They were okay. I recommend them. I wouldn't call it a recovery in my case, because I never could completely let go of HWNMNBS after our broken engagement. But I did try those courses of action, sincerely, and hoped I would eventually emerge enlightened or at least able to put him, us, it behind me.
I never quite got to that point, the end of any of those roads where I would be forced to turn left or right and move on down another course. His extended stay and subsequent re-break-up last week closed off those courses for me once and for all. (Though he insists there was nothing to break-up, which I refute. Things were broken: My heart, my life, my will to get out of bed in the morning, our friendship, the tiny shred of trust in him I had left, the us which is so amazing regardless of the status of our romantic situation, a future for us that could have been filled with laughter and understanding and a friendship the likes of which neither of us will likely ever have again, hope for a happy ending. All of that and more is irreparably broken. Sounds like a break-up to me.) No, I want and need to exist only because there are a few people in my life who either need me or would be devastated if I were to cease to exist physically.
Those people know me well enough to know I am dead inside, they know the girl they used to know and love has died. They are hoping she'll get through this, they know she can, she's been through a lot in her life, she's had to deal with a lot, she has proved herself to be a worthy opponent to life, she's a tough cookie. But they know by the look in her eyes and the sound of her voice (and lack of humor and sarcasm) that girl is dead. The smile isn't as easy or willing. That wild and sometimes devilish spark in her eye is gone. The observations aren't quickly made. The phone calls just to check in and say hi aren't made. MP3s are not burned "just because she thought we might like these songs." She wore the same pair of shoes two days in row. Someone even saw her with bare lips and no mascara. There's no mistaking it, she's gone. She's been hanging on via life support for a few years. She's had some good days when they thought she just might rally and come through this. And some bad ones where they thought they would lose her. But now, mercifully, the plug has been pulled and that girl has finally died. Hopefully she is now in a much better place. It's been such a long and difficult struggle for her.
But my parents, family and close friends who know I've died would be devastated if my body left, too. I want nothing more than for my heart to Just. Stop. Beating. I'd like to go in my sleep. That would be nice. I've had my soul brutally murdered, it would be great to catch a break with the rest of me. But I've seen parents who have outlived their children. It's a horrible thing. No matter the circumstances. And I really like my parents a lot and I couldn't stand putting them through that.
So I have to continue to exist for their sake.
So I have to survive.
The only way I can see myself having any chance of surviving is to remove all vestiges of him. Everything. Including the memories. There ain't no use in pretending. I have tried to pretend in front of everyone that I'm okay, moved on, no big deal, blah blah blah. People don't like being around losers. People don't like unhappy endings. People don't like being around people who are suffering. It's just a psychological fact of life. People in my "situation" are the embodiment of the fear all people have that they could lose the one person who means everything to them. People in my emotional state are reminders that relationships, all relationships, are tenuous. Things can and do go wrong. Life isn't always easy or just or explainable. My "situation," or at least my going through my "situation" makes other people uncomfortable. When our engagement broke up, so many people were so genuinely surprised. "They always seemed so happy together." (we were) "If they can't make it, no one can." (you're right) "Such a shame." (it was) "Is he insane?" (maybe) "They'll be back together, they're too perfect for each other to stay apart." (you're right, but not for long) were the common comments. People like to label things like this. If they can name it, they can deal with it. And categorize it. Control it. But then I show up. A love pariah. The forced smile. The dead eyes. The complete lack of emotion. They squirm uncomfortably. They cast a sympathetic look. They clutch their spouse or partner. Tightly. They shudder and say prayers this never happens to them. They want and hope we "get through this" and heal and that we "move on." Whatever that means. They probably really do want this for us, but they need it for themselves. A resurrection of spirit and optimism would make them more confident and assured and smug in their own relationship. "See?! It was never meant to be! She's moved on and look how much happier she is!" "I knew she wasn't dead!" Not resurrecting after a break-up is proof positive that love kills. And no one wants to believe that. So I pretended my way through the engagement break-up. I thought maybe, eventually, I too, would believe what I was pretending. I didn't. And neither did anyone else. This time around I don't have it in me to bother to pretend. That girl died.
So now comes the arduous task of trying to create my own Eternal Sunshine.
After the first break-up I cleaned house of all things HWNMNBS. I got rid of a lot of things. The things I couldn't quite part with, the great photos, the videos, the notes, the bits and pieces of life many of us keep "just because" all went into boxes. Now and then, when I was feeling strong, I would go through the boxes and rid myself of more stuff. As of June I was down to one (albeit large) box of stuff. And the emails. And a few voice mails.
Last night I took the box down to the dumpster.
There I quickly, unceremoniously, hurled the box of us into the trash.
As I lowered the dumpster lid back into place, I caught a glimpse of a few photos which had spilled out of the box. There, on top of my neighbors' food remains, pet poop and beer cartons, were HWNMNBS and I, smiling, happy, together.
There is not a better, more layered, seemingly simple yet very complex metaphor for any of this than that.
