Hello (3.0)
My name, as far as you know or care, is Truste. I’m a happy story with a sad ending kind of girl, except when it comes to real life. I’m a 20 year old student of political science and history, and have learned to say “I’m not sure yet” to all of the many many people who have asked me if that means I’m going to be a lawyer. I have an unhealthy addiction to obsession with iced cafe au laits and a penchant for making friends with the baristas who make them for me. I can’t spell, but I can write. I can’t add, but I can compose.
I’m too shy in large groups, too outgoing in small. I am a shameless flirt who is afraid to open up, a cynic harboring not so secret dreams of romance, a girl who never quite grew up all the way and never quite wants to. I’m vain. I’m petty. I’m sarcastic and loud and sometimes I leap before I look. Here is the happiest person you’ll ever meet. Here is someone who just wants to be different.
Nobody I know knows about this blog, and nobody I know needs to. If no one in the world knew this blog existed it would be just fine with me. If you, the reader, read every post I write here and walk away thinking you know me, then you’ll be wrong. My life is so much bigger than my words can articulate, and I am so much more than a blog.
Truste
A Different Kind of Writing
I want to write a book. It’s been an idea that I’ve always toyed with, the thought of going author, but I’ve never taken it seriously. For one thing, I myself am terribly critical of the literary products of others, and to potentially have that sort of criticism turned on me? I don’t think at this point in time that I’m sure of myself enough to let that critique roll off my back. I’m sure the thumbs-downs will come too, on the first hand because there are always detractors no matter how popular the book is, and on the other hand because I’m such a hopeless romantic at times that I know I won’t be able to stop it from creeping into my work. Even when I’m scoffing at how cliche and unrealistic Book X is, I know that I’ll probably write some of the same, given the chance, and whether I see it for what it is or not. The stuff I dream up when I’m lying in bed almost asleep, as if I’m the main character and the life she lives is mine, that stuff isn’t fit for anything but a harlequin romance, and I know that I don’t want to write one of those.
And plus, I don’t have any idea, not even one clue, about what I want to write. No seed of a plot, no vague outline of a character, not even an inkling of where to begin. One could say that an idea is the most important part, and I’ve got no clue.
Yet oh, to write a book. To create my own world, fabricate my own characters and throw them into that world and watch them make of it what they will…the thought of that appeals to me tremendously. Maybe it’s my vanity coming in, because in some ways it’s a little like playing god—to write the rules of what does and doesn’t exist: magic, deities, continents, customs, traditions, creatures, regimes. It’s such a project, but I would enjoy it beyond all measure.
We’ll see. I’ve got time; maybe one day it’ll be reality.
Swimming with Sharks
One of the things that I’m coming more and more to realize about myself since I’ve been gone (I’m referring to the months-long break I took from this blog, which wasn’t due to reasons interesting enough to explain) is that I’m truly afraid to open up emotionally. This was most recently realized while I was watching The Bachelor. What? Like I’m the only one with guilty pleasures.
And by the way—a quick aside—there’s a way the show uses to justify itself in the face of its horrible track record of successful couples that’s actually kind of compelling. In fact, I wonder why they haven’t pulled out that excuse earlier…or maybe they’d never thought of it before, seeing as I only heard of it as a quick comment from the host. Anyway, as much as the show tries to frame itself as a process which allows one man (or woman) find the person he’s going to marry and grow old with, what it actually does is help the man (or woman) find someone who he has a strong romantic connection with, a spark that they can go and build a life and a marriage off of, once the camera’s stop rolling. The Bachelor (or Bachelorette) doesn’t end up with a wife (or husband), he ends up with someone who could be his wife (or husband), and that part’s all up to them. Problem is, the show itself claims so much more and, well, that’s reality TV.
Back to the main idea. One of the finalists on this season told the camera something along the lines of “I always thought that I was a strong person, and it’s simple enough to go into (date involving some sort of thrilling/dangerous activity) acting tough. But during our serious conversations, I can’t be tough. Being strong in this case means being vulnerable and opening up.”
And despite the time Leone and I have spent together and how close we’ve become, how good we’ve gotten at reading each other, I’ve never quite been vulnerable. I’ve never quite opened up. We’ve had serious discussions, even debates, but almost never about our feelings toward each other. It’s still too scary. It’s my fault entirely, and I know that it’s something I’ll eventually have to deal with. I’m just not sure how, and I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough to take the first step. He might have to give me a push.
A Case of the Irrationals
(Or proof that I am, after all, a girl)
Since I’ve come back from Thanksgiving break, Leone has seemed extra affectionate towards me, something which he’s never been lacking of in the first place. I chock it up to our not having seen each other for 4 days, which is probably the longest time we’ve been apart since he came back in August. Oh, and a few days ago we had an anniversary of sorts, really the first one we’ve actually acknowledged/been able to identify: that day one year ago was the first time he started talking to me online (I remember because he greeted me with the date in the message). It was right after I returned from last year’s Thanksgiving, and since then hardly a day’s gone by when we didn’t
talk. Not counting, of course, when I was out in the middle of the ocean faced with $6/minute phone rates, or when our schedules didn’t match up/we didn’t have calling cards while Leone was in Europe—because who could blame us then?
Anyway, last night after Leone left the apartment after hanging out and watching TV here for a few hours, he called me to tell me a piece of news, and added that he’d like to drive out during my 1.5 hour break to have lunch. He’s going to his grandma’s later today to celebrate his birthday and won’t be home until the evening, and even though we usually don’t see each other on Tuesdays/Thursdays until the evenings and had made plans for him to come over when he got home, it would be nice to hang out for a little before then. That is, if he’s able to wake up in time. Since he graduated in May, and until he finds a job/goes to grad school Leone has been sleeping in until noon-1ish every day, a life that I would lead if I didn’t have to drag myself to class, and a life that I, as a night-owl, envy very much. I knew that it was unlikely that he would wake up in time to make the narrow window and I teased him a little about not getting my hopes up, but he implied that he would make the effort.
Profiled.
It’s strange that even now, after all that has happened, after all these months, whenever I look at his old facebook profile picture, the one that he hasn’t changed once since I’ve known him, and I see his bemused face looking back at me, he feels like a stranger. I get nervous when I look at him, anxious, all a-jitter. As if we were still stuck in that long, long period of flirtation and hope and uncertainty. As if I should be ashamed to be on his page, staring at his photo. He feels like the boy I fell so deeply in like with, whom I didn’t yet know would one day become my first everything, and the one I fell in love with.
There, I Said It.
I love him too.
I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe I just wrote those words, that the internet is the first to know, that this blog has to be the place they first alight after stumbling out from the dark recesses of my mind, where I’ve been hoarding them so long. If I’d thought about it, I wouldn’t have typed them, or I would’ve talked about it without directly saying those words, because doesn’t Leone deserve to be the first to know? But it’s too late now. If only telling him were as easy as typing that sentence just was.
To be honest, I’ve known that I love him since mid-September, and I still haven’t told him. At first I was giving it some time to try to make sure I was sure before I said it, and after that I just kept finding excuses. I don’t want to plan out a perfect moment, a perfect speech, because that just feels too scripted, but I also don’t want to just throw it out there at a completely unromantic moment, either. Sometimes I think it would be kind of nice to say it out of the blue as we’re walking down the street, because that’s sweet and a story in its own way, and other times I want that romance. I’ve been hoping that I’ve been keeping it in for so long that it’ll just burst out of me one day at the most inopportune of times, and that will make it the loveliest of all, but that hasn’t happened yet because when it comes to feelings I always always think and rethink before I speak.
Sometimes I’m afraid that he doesn’t love me anymore, even though everything he does says otherwise, so I consider bringing up that phone conversation as a lead-in, because maybe he’ll say it again and then it’ll come easy. And then I think—no, this is my time to say it. I’ve briefly entertained the idea of secretly taking some liquid courage beforehand, but that’s cheating, an easy way out.
The more I think about it, the more I know I need to just do it. Just do it, and don’t think. I’m thinking about this way too much, and by thinking about not planning it I’m actually planning it. Funny thing.
And oh—I never really understood what people meant when they said, “when you’re in love, you’ll know.” I remember back in July, thinking about it from all different angles, trying to figure out whether I loved him or just really really liked him, and back then when I thought “I like him,” my brain went “YES” and when I thought “I love him,” it went “…” And since September, “I love him” is a “YES”. It just feels right, and when I think “I like him,” …I can’t even recall that feeling anymore. They were right. I just knew, and I don’t know the how or why of it, but somewhere in these months I’ve found the trust in love that I was never quite sure I had, as a sometimes-cynic. Not that it conquers all or that it’s never wrong or that it’s forever, because those discoveries are for the seasoned and I’m still an amateur, but that it exists. And for now, that’s good enough for me.
Reawakenings
Guess who I saw two nights ago completely unexpectedly, completely out of the blue, completely by accident? No. 1. I was in his house. I was standing on his floor. I was drinking coffee that he made me. I’d heard on the grapevine that he was in Dubai.
He saw me first. I don’t know if I would’ve even known he was there if he hadn’t yelled my name and pulled down his fake beard upon my request. I was surprised that he recognized me, the girl who was nothing more than someone who was once in one—no, two—of his classes, who liked him and tried too hard to talk to him. And then I thought—why is it a surprise at all? We had been friends. I’ve told myself this and I recognize that it’s so sad that when I look back on that year I remember him as the guy I liked and only recall after several minutes of nostalgic pining that he was my friend first. And maybe that’s why we’re not in contact anymore: I didn’t make the effort because I didn’t feel like his friend, I felt like one girl out of so many who liked him, and thus not entitled.
He said something to me in German that got lost in the din, and we tried to catch up while costumed partygoers squeezed past us in the narrow hallway. He leaned close so that I could hear him over the music and the confusion, and I looked into his eyes, and they were just as blue as I had remembered. He said, “I really want coffee—do you want coffee?”I replied, “YES. Youaremykindoman!” That last in my head.
And then he went to grind beans and start up the stove (because that’s how hipsters make coffee, apparently) and I was left standing there, my mind abuzz. For the record, I wasn’t sober, although he might have been. Perhaps I made a bad second-first impression. I determinedly tried to remember Leone, how much I care for him, how much more perfect he is than No. 1. How Leone can give No. 1 a serious run for his money in the looks department, even with those dash-your-heart-upon-them baby blues. No. 1′s arms were probably no thicker than mine, and his caveman costume was uncomfortably short in some places, and yet I stood there and wasn’t sure if I still wanted him.
I don’t think I did. I think that maybe I would want him in a schoolgirl way, just to want him, but ultimately I don’t think I like him anymore. Nor am I certain anymore that we would fit together perfectly. It’s hard not to want to throw yourself at him (I saw several girls batting their eyelashes at him throughout the night), but if anything the party was a confirmation that those loose ends are finally tied. I felt immediately guilty for even thinking that I could still like No. 1 somewhere inside me that’s been dormant for three years, and later in bed with Leone I tried to pretend that he was No. 1 to see if there was anything there and my own mind slapped me back like a shot.
But still, I miss him as a friend, and I think finally I’ve let go of my like for him enough that I can just be his friend, nothing else. I think. I think? I’m no longer entirely sure. Maybe I’ll never be free of him, but it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t interfere with what I have with Leone, and I’m not going to let it.
The Skinny on the New Place
This place is nice. Not large, but softly carpeted and not a billion years old and cozy in a way that Rosemary’s and my place never really was. We were always a little scared to sit on the ground there. Or walk around barefoot. It’s further from campus, which is a deterrent from going to class (you have to leave 20 minutes in advance to make it to the closest building and you always arrive a little sweaty, no matter how cold it is outside), but so is being a senior. It is close to the BART station and a bunch of restaurants and the bus stop and a STARBUCKS, though, so I’m not complaining (too loudly).
Luck and Leone
I started working on this post in the middle of September, and it’s been sitting more than a full month. The guilt I feel for not finishing this has prevented me from posting anything else I’ve wanted to. I figured it’s about time I’m done with this.
Leone finally, finally came home on the night of August 26, a Tuesday, two days before the semester started. That night was also the night of the very first party of the year (or so Buttercup said), held at one of the bigger frathouses, and a not-to-be-missed occasion (or so Buttercup said). I fretted. I really couldn’t care less if it was the first party of the year or the last; all I wanted was to see my boyfriend who’d been abroad the last month and a half. It didn’t matter that a month and a half was probably nothing to Buttercup, whose own boyfriend lives in San Diego. Since I’d first started talking to Leone there haven’t been more than 2 occasions on which we didn’t speak for an entire day. I missed him, and I couldn’t wait to be with him again.
At the same time, I didn’t want to start the year off on the sour chord struck by choosing my boyfriend over my friends, however understandable my motives. And for some reason, Buttercup was adamant I didn’t miss this party. Even if I was clearly torn. Even if Jasmine too expressed disinterest in partying that night.
Shiny Little Love Light
A skinny middle aged man in brown tweed stands on a street corner in sunny Solano, his bold voice floating across the summer’s last warmth as his fingers pluck out sharp chords on a guitar. He moves, bends, grooves with the rhythm of the notes, his feet tapping beat on the hot pavement.
Leone and I walk by, clutching brown paper bag bagel lunches, sharing thoughts and laughs as we stroll down the street. The man raises his voice as if his chorus for us: “So let your little love light shine….oh, let your little love light shine.” I turn to smile at him; he grins right back at me as he sings. I look back to Leone as we continue along, our little love light shining bright.
