May is a funny month here in the Pacific Northwest. Some days it's so pretty that the word "pretty" finds itself to be a pale imitation of the world that it tries to define. Then there are days like today, dark, rainy days where I find myself genuinely happy to be inside cooking, reading and spending time in front of the computer. While the cat tried out the puddles in the backyard I made a lamb dish I found in a Nigella Lawson cookbook, one that My Colleague's mom pulled off my cookbook shelf a few weeks ago. So far that book yielded a couple nice cheesecakes, now the lamb dish, later on a couscous dish and who knows what else before the weekend is over and done with.
Dark days like this also make for pleasant movie watching. Last night I was happy to share a classic with my film group, the Spyglass Film Appreciation Society. I set up only half of the meeting room, figuring for a small crowd, and I got points right away for hitting that prediction square on the head. There was a total of six of us last night, all grooving to a widescreen, oversized viewing of West Side Story. The sound was perfect, the microwaved popcorn was wooden as always and the commentary was appreciated by all. Who knew that Robert Wise was such a prolific director and had won so many awards? As for the movie, it ended much too late for a work night, but I was pleased with the turnout and walked home in the rain with a bag of cat litter slung over my shoulder, happy to have finally seen that musical legend on the "Big Screen".
While I was watching that movie I thought, as the lead sang his love song about Maria, that I could easily slip your name into that song instead, and so I did as he warbled his tune up on the screen. It was silly of me, of course, but then, when it comes to you, I find myself being silly damn near all the time. What made that whole song moment somewhat raw was when I realized that I was sitting in the same room where I met you, almost six years ago. "I just met someone named...." well, you fill in the blanks. Just like last night we had that room closed off, but that day the shades were up and the sunlight streamed in. I can still picture when ou walked into the room. I noticed on your application that you were a Port Orchard resident but knew nothing about your neck of the woods. The Woods. Funny. "I liked you right away" is what you wrote to me about that afternoon. I suppose I could say the same thing about you.
As for last night, I found that that movie's central love theme was overridden by the dance and music numbers as well as the social issues at hand. As a group we didn't get a chance to go into that last night, but I suppose the "appreciation" part of our mandate is really what we're all about. Appreciating film, appreciating each other's company, movie partisans all. I suppose, too, that that's what we were all about when we were together, a mutual admiration society. We started out deep in appreciation , and then dialed it up a notch, for like the leads in the movie stated to each other, we found that it was all to easy to adore each other, too. "Te adoro, your-name-here". Heck, you even sent a card to me with that inscribed on it at the beginning of it all.
But May really marks the end of it all, a sort of bookend to the beginnings we shared the year before, when you were still waffling as to whether or not you could even go out and share a cup of coffee with me. In the end it was you who asked me to hit up the market that night after work. Funny how in the end you were in control of time. Our time. Fateful, momentous, mythical time.
I suppose that's why I mentioned that line you wrote me around this time, May of '06. By then you were on the ropes at home, embroiled in your daily "talks". Your missives to me in early May spelled out that you were wavering, that time was running out. I backed away slightly, watched it all unfold from my side of the computer screen. Every day brought new developments, every day I prepared myself for the inevitable, for your departure, and you, my dear, called me on it. "Buddy, don't give up on me now". What could I say about that, about your supplication? How could I tasked to hold on when it was you who was slipping away? I never gave up on you, M, I just watched from up close as you gave up on your dreams. That part was the hardest part of them all to see. See you give up all that you gained, all that you cared for, all that you adored.
As for those dreams that we shared, these days when I walk down a street late at night, thinking of you as I whistle show tunes, I now know with complete certainty that timeless love comes at a very high price. As far as we're concerned, that price is moot, for that love that we shared has been on hiatus for awhile. But as far as "giving up on you"? Well, just know that I never did. Never will. Does that sound pathetic? Yes and no, but like with Romeo and Juliet and West Side Story, it makes for a good story. One hell of a page turner. I'm happy to have lived it, M, mighty glad that you starred in that story, too.
Te Adoro, Professora.
Your WHMB
Dark days like this also make for pleasant movie watching. Last night I was happy to share a classic with my film group, the Spyglass Film Appreciation Society. I set up only half of the meeting room, figuring for a small crowd, and I got points right away for hitting that prediction square on the head. There was a total of six of us last night, all grooving to a widescreen, oversized viewing of West Side Story. The sound was perfect, the microwaved popcorn was wooden as always and the commentary was appreciated by all. Who knew that Robert Wise was such a prolific director and had won so many awards? As for the movie, it ended much too late for a work night, but I was pleased with the turnout and walked home in the rain with a bag of cat litter slung over my shoulder, happy to have finally seen that musical legend on the "Big Screen".
While I was watching that movie I thought, as the lead sang his love song about Maria, that I could easily slip your name into that song instead, and so I did as he warbled his tune up on the screen. It was silly of me, of course, but then, when it comes to you, I find myself being silly damn near all the time. What made that whole song moment somewhat raw was when I realized that I was sitting in the same room where I met you, almost six years ago. "I just met someone named...." well, you fill in the blanks. Just like last night we had that room closed off, but that day the shades were up and the sunlight streamed in. I can still picture when ou walked into the room. I noticed on your application that you were a Port Orchard resident but knew nothing about your neck of the woods. The Woods. Funny. "I liked you right away" is what you wrote to me about that afternoon. I suppose I could say the same thing about you.
As for last night, I found that that movie's central love theme was overridden by the dance and music numbers as well as the social issues at hand. As a group we didn't get a chance to go into that last night, but I suppose the "appreciation" part of our mandate is really what we're all about. Appreciating film, appreciating each other's company, movie partisans all. I suppose, too, that that's what we were all about when we were together, a mutual admiration society. We started out deep in appreciation , and then dialed it up a notch, for like the leads in the movie stated to each other, we found that it was all to easy to adore each other, too. "Te adoro, your-name-here". Heck, you even sent a card to me with that inscribed on it at the beginning of it all.
But May really marks the end of it all, a sort of bookend to the beginnings we shared the year before, when you were still waffling as to whether or not you could even go out and share a cup of coffee with me. In the end it was you who asked me to hit up the market that night after work. Funny how in the end you were in control of time. Our time. Fateful, momentous, mythical time.
I suppose that's why I mentioned that line you wrote me around this time, May of '06. By then you were on the ropes at home, embroiled in your daily "talks". Your missives to me in early May spelled out that you were wavering, that time was running out. I backed away slightly, watched it all unfold from my side of the computer screen. Every day brought new developments, every day I prepared myself for the inevitable, for your departure, and you, my dear, called me on it. "Buddy, don't give up on me now". What could I say about that, about your supplication? How could I tasked to hold on when it was you who was slipping away? I never gave up on you, M, I just watched from up close as you gave up on your dreams. That part was the hardest part of them all to see. See you give up all that you gained, all that you cared for, all that you adored.
As for those dreams that we shared, these days when I walk down a street late at night, thinking of you as I whistle show tunes, I now know with complete certainty that timeless love comes at a very high price. As far as we're concerned, that price is moot, for that love that we shared has been on hiatus for awhile. But as far as "giving up on you"? Well, just know that I never did. Never will. Does that sound pathetic? Yes and no, but like with Romeo and Juliet and West Side Story, it makes for a good story. One hell of a page turner. I'm happy to have lived it, M, mighty glad that you starred in that story, too.
Te Adoro, Professora.
Your WHMB
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