There's so much new stuff to say about finally being in a real romantic relationship. The one thing that hits me now is the sense of freedom. For all the years I have lived in New Haven, especially in the first half when I was occupied with my best friend, I had to always struggle with what I want and what I felt I was allowed to do. I couldn't just say what I wanted, couldn't express what my heart felt without turning it into an emotional kamikaze mission. I couldn't touch the other person's hand; the thought of it already bore down on my heavily. I couldn't look at in her eyes for more than a split second. And even when I wrote poems to them, I had to be more abstract, more cryptic, as if it were as much for her to know I was still interested as it was for me to remind myself. And this doesn't mention the intimacy, or the need to tolerate its absence. And along with it, the need to bear the absence of any reciprocation.
I remember when my best friend and I went to see a movie once, in that old movie theater that was shut down shortly before she left the country, I mustered the courage to put my hand over hers, maybe even tried to feel the spaces between her fingers with my fingers. But the vibration of awkwardness quickly turned into earthquakes, and I had to pull away in a shameful retreat.
On Friday, the pianist and I left the final stop of my 7 train in Times Square and walked through the dreadfully long tunnel to the A train. And I was just talking when I felt her hand taking mine. The euphoria is ineffable, but so was also a sense of extreme sadness. After all these years, I started to feel free. Not only could I tell this person how much I liked her, not only could I write her poems openly describing (in a poetic way, of course) how much she made me happy, not only could I touch her face and get a blushed smile back, I was also feeling the reciprocation. I wonder where I have been these eight and a half years. How was it that for nearly nine years I was living in a cage where my emotions, my expressions, my desire to love, was all strapped within this straitjacket of unknown origin. I wonder if it really does take so long, nearly nine years, nearly a decade, for this type of connection to be forged. If someone had told me nine years ago that that was how long I would have had to wait, I wonder if I would have gone crazy from the start. Nine years in a prison. (Actually, it has been nine years since I moved to New Haven on a cool September day.) A prison where an important part of human energy, that romantic love for another human being, is forced within the dam of life.
I still don't understand where that dam comes from. I just know how sweet it tastes that now I can do what seems so natural, so simple. To put my arm around the woman I am crazy about without feeling guilty, without preparing myself before I even start to pull that arm away. I did something crazy on Saturday. She was teaching out on Long Island, while I was in Chinatown torturing my mind and body with kung fu practices. After that I went and got myself a haircut, and then I got some cannoli from Little Italy. Then I took the train all the way up to the northern end, the land of Castles, and bought three golden roses. The crazier part is that I went into her apartment without telling her, and left the goodies in her apartment. I told her in a note that she wouldn't have to worry I would sneak in in the future. I trusted that she understood. I left her a poem and went all the way back to Queens. I have always wanted to be creative in my expression of love for a woman. Here I took a chance and made a daring move that might upset her because she didn't entrust me with her spare key so I could sneak in without telling her.
But somehow, I believed she would understand, and hopefully, moreover, loved my action.
I did it also because I was afraid I wouldn't see her that evening. She's usually exhausted by the end of Saturday and just want to be home alone. And yet, she decided to take up my offer for dinner at my place, to see my place for the first time. And that's what we did. That was before she took my hands in that long stuffy corridor, the first woman since I returned to this country just before the Towers fell exactly ten years ago. We parted ways because I wanted to go practice tango and she wanted to go home and crash in her bed.
An hour later I got a text message from her.
Freedom comes with connection, this sort of freedom, at least. I wanted to be crazy like I think a boy crazy about a girl would do. I want to freely express myself without feeling that there are boundaries, there are rules, there are limits. For so long I have had to curtail my creativity, suffocate it often, because the other person simply wasn't interested.
But now, I have someone who sent me a text message, in response to my crazy act, saying how sweet I was, how happy I made her. She couldn't understand how little cannoli from Little Italy got all the way up to Washington Heights until she realized I traveled all that way. For her, the crazy part wasn't sneaking into her apartment, but that I made such effort to show her how much I appreciated her.
When I can do what I feel, I don't need to make efforts, actually. I don't have to scheme hard to avoid awkwardness. I just do it. I feel like a boy, not a 37 year old who needs to sell his house, who needs to respond to multi-million dollar questions everyday. I am just a boy, and she not only appreciates my boyish energy, but can't believe she deserved so much attention.
How she perceives love and relationship is interesting and also is the source of some difficulties we face, but I will leave that for another day. It is refreshing simply to write a blog entry celebrating the joy of freedom, joy of being crazy for someone. This is in great contrast to all the sad, angry, frustrated entries. I don't know how long this will last, but I am grateful that in life, sometimes a woman, a woman I am crazy about, wants to hold my hand, wants to know when I would be home, wants to know how much I still liked her.
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