Birds flying high
You know how I feel
Sun in the sky
You know how I feel
Reeds driftin' on by
You know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me



So I sat there on my bed, waiting for the wave of guilt to crash down on me. And I sat for another few minutes, and sat... and nothing happened. In fact, I felt about a million pounds lighter, and I breathed as I sat there still silently expecting the residue of it all to creep back into my skin and humble me. But nope, nothing.

Whoever said breaking up is hard to do was an idiot. And possibly a singer.

Well, maybe it’s only easy if you are a drifter like me. See cause drifters, like me, don’t really get “in” relationships in the first place. I mean sure, all the signs are there, the visits, the movie going: whatever it is people in real-ationships do, however, the drifter rarely commits oneself fully. For the drifter, I mean err... me, to settle down one solitary significant other must have all the qualities of ten significant others, and be supportive of the drifter’s wandering nature. For this soul, love alone will never be enough. It must always search and find perfection in the total aspect of life.

So I finally answered the phone. On the end was an angry, explosive, guilt-dishing man hoping to save a non-existent real-ationship. What he would find is a blunt, relaxed, half asleep woman who had already been liberated from such spells, who had already found salvation in the kindness of strangers.

See because there I was, bitching, discussing the latest of voicemail messages designed to make me feel like a monster, humble myself and walk back into the trap. After hearing all this, “Erica, where are you? What is going on? What is your problem? I’m concerned about you. You need to quit playing and call me. You know you are wrong....”, instead of feeling guilty I got selfish. I got angry. After all, since when is living your own life such a crime? I am really good at it: playing the loving and faithful companion. I am really good at giving him and all the others whatever it is they want, seldom a selfish moment when I ask for something of my own. But if I give everything else, why shouldn’t my hours be mine to distribute? Shouldn’t my time, at least, belong to me? Actually you know what, that is not up for debate. I need my own time. Sometimes. And that’s it.

Let’s get back to the point. There I was, bitching, and in through the door walks an angel. It had to be an angel because the timing and delivery was so perfect, and I have always believed that irony is at God’s disposal. And there he was, white sweater draping over his jeans, totally oblivious as to how he was being used at that moment, about how he would, in ten minutes, change my entire life. And then he showered me with joy, with happiness and strength in the form of game board pieces with pictures of my smile. He laid out friendship right there on the table in front of me, in the form of personalized monopoly squares and Shop for Peace currency. He gave me a tangible love in the form of little Monkey Besos, an inspiration and hope that could only be attained by the memory of doing the Cha-Cha under the moonlight. Inspiration. Hope for something better. Faith that something better does exist. Exactly. I found faith in Eric.

And all I could do is stand there, laughter and tears spilling out me organically, from somewhere really down deep. I felt as if it was the ultimate catharsis, and as emotion poured out of me like a river I couldn’t say anything. Well anything except, “Eric, you have no idea.” I fell into his arms, and my mascara ran down his white shirt, and I felt so impulsive, and so alive. Something that had been missing for a long time. I wanted to run off and feed a village, or have a passionate love affair, or... whatever. I just felt alive.

So I answered my phone. I answered the questions that needed to be answered. I wiped my hands clean and am ready to start anew. If you ask me, it must have been the neatest breakup on the face on the planet. Because I wasn’t holding on, lingering there, afraid that if I left, or if he left or we parted, that nothing else would fulfill me. Or fulfill him. No wave of guilt attacked me, I didn’t even really explain everything to him. Cause maybe if I let him go, he will find his very own faith. And see that doesn’t make me feel guilty at all, it makes me smile.

Raindrops on roses, etc etc

I never throw anything away. My room at home is piles and piles of letters, songs, unfinished poems and boxes full of pictures. But everything I hold onto is not as romantic as that. I also have tiny t-shirts from kindergarten classes, a Fred Flintstone figurine that I squeezed into a Veryfine juice bottle (this contraption may in fact be the 8th wonder of the world... I thought about giving it away as the prize for the homemade present contest), and other assorted phone numbers, clothes, shoes, unpaid bills, etc. I used to have this fantasy that I was saving it all for when I was famous, so that the president of my fan club could auction it all off on EBay and give me a hefty percentage. But it has been getting slightly out of hand; I have become a collector of other things too, of friendships, of jobs, of men. I keep holding onto all of these things because hey, I might need them one day, and if I throw them away I will look for them, they will be gone and I will be lost.

I get so attached to all of my things, they somehow begin to define me. When I am walking down the street with my brown tinted sunglasses and favorite flowing jean skirt, I feel more confident, and happy with the me that I present to the world. I like it when people admire all of my stuff, or my tastes, or how I manage to work two and three jobs and take twenty-one credits a semester. And its true, I do get known by these things, these labels that I have taken on because of the physical things I like to surround myself with. Maybe its just not a label either, perhaps it actually affects my personality, perhaps I am truly what my exterior presence displays to the world. Then again, it’s probably more likely that I not all those things, but parts of me would certainly like to be.

So where does that leave me? Lately I have been throwing things away. Trying to. There is a constant struggle to break free of the emotional attachment to these objects of old that represented to the world the way that I used to be. I remember when I painted over my dresser this summer, I painted right over all those names and messages that though they would last forever, that I thought would serve as a solid record of people who cared about me, who were once a big part of my life. Something to look at on the hard days to remind me that I was not always alone. But still, I got out my paint, and took specifc, warm joys in running my brush over the smooth surface, gently coating the memories of the past with new ambitions for the future. And I think that’s really what this is all about.

Ironically I remember when he came over later this summer and saw the dresser, painted in black, adorned with gold, covered in new things that are of new importance to me, and he bitched about his name being covered up. Well I thought to myself, “What the hell does it matter? It’s still there; it’s just not on top anymore.” And that right there, is EXACTLY what this is all about.

I never stopped loving my things. I never traded them in for newer or better ones. I just used them as foundation for loving other things. As I grow and my interests change, the image I begin to project gets bigger and badder and more adult and closer to where I want to end up after it is all done and said. So, I have been tucking away some things for EBay, the things that can’t really be painted over, that have to stay as a memory in themselves. Like Fred*. Holding onto only the necessary as I stumble along the narrow path.


*I meant Flintstone. Ok so the boy’s name just happens to be the same.