that Iâm not sure I even know what that state feels like anymore, or that I would recognize it even if it crawled up my leg and bit me on the inside of my arse. So I ask that you be patient with me. Be patient with me and forgive me. Forgive me, for I am an incomplete idiot even at the best of times and circumstances. Forgive me, for I will cling to illogicalities, I will wear down the hooks and hooves of my insecurities on your back. My timing will be arrhythmic and as dependable as a fake Seiko under water, as precise as a cockeyed raccoon ballet. Forgive me because I know I will inevitably hurt your feelings while not even being aware that Iâm doing it. I will be defensive and unthinking and lash out to protect all that is void or nonexistent or useless. So forgive me ever more and be ever more patient with me. And when the time comes, should I not be in love with you, then Iâm a complete fool who doesnât deserve yours or anyone elseâs love, for who could not love someone with such qualities of patience and forgiveness and open-heartedness? Now hold me tight as I lean closer into you, tighter still, because I have this incredible and uncontrollable urge to simply and quietly cry as I lean into you and remind myself what you smell like, as I remember what home smells like.
F irst
There is a proper name for everything that exists in this world. The groove in corduroy. The piece of green paper in take-away sushi packs, cut to look like grass that separates the wet ginger from the moisture-hungry seaweed. The bulging nodes at the base of Morning Glory stems that bend when touched. The blue fluid inside ice-packs. That small dot behind the eye of the clownfish.
There is a name for all ephemeral things, too. Emotions, thoughts, processes, all named by scientists, poets, novelists, dictionary compilers, university professors, journalists, and celebrities, all recorded and stored in the Library of Congress, the Patent and Trademark Offices, local libraries, in endless files stacked up in nameless offices and museums basements around the world.
The sound of Velcro coming apart. The red-tinted ghosts with long oily hair that haunt rubber plantations in Malaysia. The sexual fetish of being aroused by having your genitals touched with barbecue tongs. The different stages of rigor mortis. The bacteria that hangs in the San Francisco air which causes sourdough to turn so. The particular sort of blistering that crack smoke burns in the soft tissue of the throat. The gradients of sweat and their odors.
Then there are the phobias. Each dutifully studied, catalogued, and named by a psychologist with the care of a father naming a first-born. The fear of horseradish. The fear of brown paper bags. The fear of plastic products, velour, wooden chopsticks. Even something as specific as the paralyzing fear of Sesame Street characters has a name. Iâm being serious. I once knew a woman who, as a young innocent college intern, worked at the studio where one of the many versions of that venerable childrenâs show was produced. The man inside of Big Bird would strut around in his yellow-feathered costume, without the head and beak, of course, and sexually harass her, making lewd comments and touching her inappropriately with his big yellow-feathered wings. This went on for weeks, she said, but she really wanted the job and was young, confused, and scared, and did not know what to do. Eventually, the men whose hands were shoved up all day inside fluffy furry Ernie, Bert, and Oscar the Grouch started to pull their hands out of their Muppets and desired to put them inside the woolly sweaters she wore, as was the fashion at the time. It was as if they had this thing for fuzzy fabric, she said. One day while channel-surfing, she accidentally clicked on NBCâs Muppets On Ice special. The sight of Big Bird and the whole motley crew on ice skates doings loops and salchows made her scream uncontrollably; she had a
F irst
There is a proper name for everything that exists in this world. The groove in corduroy. The piece of green paper in take-away sushi packs, cut to look like grass that separates the wet ginger from the moisture-hungry seaweed. The bulging nodes at the base of Morning Glory stems that bend when touched. The blue fluid inside ice-packs. That small dot behind the eye of the clownfish.
There is a name for all ephemeral things, too. Emotions, thoughts, processes, all named by scientists, poets, novelists, dictionary compilers, university professors, journalists, and celebrities, all recorded and stored in the Library of Congress, the Patent and Trademark Offices, local libraries, in endless files stacked up in nameless offices and museums basements around the world.
The sound of Velcro coming apart. The red-tinted ghosts with long oily hair that haunt rubber plantations in Malaysia. The sexual fetish of being aroused by having your genitals touched with barbecue tongs. The different stages of rigor mortis. The bacteria that hangs in the San Francisco air which causes sourdough to turn so. The particular sort of blistering that crack smoke burns in the soft tissue of the throat. The gradients of sweat and their odors.
Then there are the phobias. Each dutifully studied, catalogued, and named by a psychologist with the care of a father naming a first-born. The fear of horseradish. The fear of brown paper bags. The fear of plastic products, velour, wooden chopsticks. Even something as specific as the paralyzing fear of Sesame Street characters has a name. Iâm being serious. I once knew a woman who, as a young innocent college intern, worked at the studio where one of the many versions of that venerable childrenâs show was produced. The man inside of Big Bird would strut around in his yellow-feathered costume, without the head and beak, of course, and sexually harass her, making lewd comments and touching her inappropriately with his big yellow-feathered wings. This went on for weeks, she said, but she really wanted the job and was young, confused, and scared, and did not know what to do. Eventually, the men whose hands were shoved up all day inside fluffy furry Ernie, Bert, and Oscar the Grouch started to pull their hands out of their Muppets and desired to put them inside the woolly sweaters she wore, as was the fashion at the time. It was as if they had this thing for fuzzy fabric, she said. One day while channel-surfing, she accidentally clicked on NBCâs Muppets On Ice special. The sight of Big Bird and the whole motley crew on ice skates doings loops and salchows made her scream uncontrollably; she had a
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