beer_goggles kerry i knew walking home the night i first met him that i was wearing my beer goggles, especially when i agreed to be there again, tuesday at 5. i'd meant it when i said it and regretted it as soon as i walked out the door. miserable dreary pacific northwest half-hearted weather. not rain, not fog, but whatever's in between--drizzle? mist? light enough to make an umbrella feel useless but wet enough to fog your glasses and make your hair frizz. i went to bed and put most of it aside, keeping only for myself how good it felt to be wanted, to have someone look at me like that, hungry, to share a cigarette and make out in the drizzle/mist/whatever. i chose to wipe the stale taste of his mouth from my memory. he had very dark almond-shaped eyes, a kind face. lots of people have kind faces. i'd forget his eventually. but i do remember the dark eyes and prematurely graying hair, the gauged earlobes, pale hands. that's one problem about chatting with the guy two barstools over--what stays with you is the face, the voice, and hands. he asks what you're reading and you're embarrassed, almost, to have such a hefty tome at a bar, a place you go on tuesdays because you like the bartender who lives nearby and seems sweet and gives off faintly queer vibes and remembers what you like. seeing someone's appreciation for this book you're plodding through amplifies the alcohol, i realized later. i'd flipped the book closed and looked sheepishly at its cover. "it's about the romanov dynasty. it sounds dry but it's not at all--everyone's killing each other and torturing each other and drinking loads of vodka, having huge parties and lots of sex and it's total anarchy." he'd sounded sincere when he said it wasn't boring at all, and his eyes kind of glowed, and he wanted to know what i was drinking, which was maker's with soda. he was a chef at a french restaurant but at home he only ate grilled cheese. he told me and the bartender about living in vegas, we all argued about gambling. we liked the same movies. it was near halloween, horror season, and i was better then at recalling directors and names, and i felt like a shinier version of myself especially when he bought me a round. so this is what you see when you're talking under amber lights and the bartender is chiming in and you're warm with this feeling of being seen and admired. but what you can't see, or don't want to see, is how he's really been put together. you don't see it until you're standing outside talking about why there are so many serial killer movies now and so few serial killers (or are there??) and he kisses you and it's not bad but not great, and shouldn't it always be great and if it's not great then what's the point? but when was the last time someone wanted to kiss you? and when was the last time someone paused and looked at your face and kissed you again? you don't see the angst and self-loathing. i say you though it was me. but surely it's not only me. i'd debated whether i should go back like i promised but then i thought what if that was me, sitting at the bar waiting, and no one showed? walking there i hoped he'd stand me up. but he was there, surprised i'd come, and when i sat down i saw in brighter light the things i'd mentally set aside. i squirmed when he said he hated himself. i didn't want to comfort or reassure him. i wanted to remind him i didn't know him. i got a drink to comfort myself. and he'd kissed me again and it was still so-so. at one point outside we leaned against the wall with our cigarettes and he put an arm around my waist and his head on my shoulder. he was narrow, my height, slight, but so, so heavy all of a sudden. and i wanted to run, i thought oh my god, this is a person really in need, this person wants to be saved, and i am in no place to save anyone. and we'd both been drinking and he said "i could marry you" and i grimaced and said feeling like i was in a bad movie "you don't even know me" and he said "but you read books about the romanov dynasty and drink maker's and you're perfect," and it felt like a good time to throw his own irritating self-deprecation back in his face and say "i'm actually awful, and you've been drinking." when i paid my tab and put on my coat he said he'd probably never see me again and i said, at a loss, not knowing who or how to be at that moment, "you never know." though he was right. it was misting again that evening. it was nasty and gray and my boots were heavy and chafing my ankles. i said to myself i guess it was good that i'd gone, and that i could see clearly that all i'd been doing was feeding my own ego, relishing being desired, and i would have to forgive myself for being human. that life ended and another began and i was still annoyingly human but at least my sight had improved somewhat. 221005 ... kerry [edit: you finally see the angst and self loathing.] 221005 ... kerry [nevermind, scratch the edit. i don't know. sometimes i wish blather allowed us to delete. but that's part of what makes it uniquely what it is.] 221005 ... raze there have been times when i've wished i could delete some of what i've written too. at one point in my life i probably would have torched it all if given the chance. but these days, most of the time i'm glad all our words are (hopefully) here forever. this blathe — like everything you write — is powerful, and searing in its emotional honesty. i think one of the most valuable things about digging into uncomfortable memories and moments is the opportunity it gives us to extend a bit empathy to earlier versions of ourselves that we didn't always get or believe we deserved when we needed it most. sometimes it feels like you're picking at a scab, when what you're really doing is tattooing new skin over an old scar. i'm always so grateful you're here. 221005 ... kerry thank you so much, raze. picking at a scab is a great way to put it. i mulled over this for weeks before actually putting pen to paper, or words to red. 221007 what's it to you? who go blather from