LJ Idol Week Two - Living Rent-Free in My Head
1994 is about to turn into 1995.
F. and I are spending the evening at her place.
We could have gone out dancing or having fun with friends, but we are not in the mood.
We’d rather have entered the new year with our lovers. But F’s boyfriend is still married and at home with wife and kids. Mine is at his house, with his ex who owns it with him and just might set it on fire if he doesn’t turn up.
Both of them have their reasons, and we probably have ours, because we each accept the situation we are in. We believe we love these men enough to tolerate all this. Or at least we tell ourselves we do.
But we spend a lot of time begrudging “the other” what they have with “our” men. We talk about why they keep insisting on being with somebody, who is openly in a new relationship. Why they blackmail them with the power they have over the children, or, in my case, a house that cannot be sold if one of the conjoint owners opposes herself.
We imagine, what they are doing right now, eating together, talking. And, in our darkest moments, we have pictured these women putting on make-up, sexy underwear and an intriguing scent, in order to possibly ring in this new year with a nice little reminder of what has been. And what could easily enough be again.
One more hour until midnight. F. puts down her third, or forth, glass of Prosecco and looks at me.
“Do we want to continue like this?” she asks. “Do we really want to start yet another year whining and worrying and supposing the worst?
I can only shake my head. No, I do not want this. I never did, but it just happened. I don’t know what to say, I am out of words.
F. has enough for both of us.
“We basically have no choice. Other than just send them packing. We have tried crying, seduction, pleading, setting ultimatums…”
“Ultimata”, I correct automatically.
“Whatever,” F. continues, “in any case, nothing has worked. The more we whine or demand, the less the men want to be with us. And in the end, they just stay more often with their exes, who don’t complain and are just…there.”
“That’s the problem,” I say. “That they are always there. For them, and in our brains.”
F. nods. “So, really it is the same thing if the guys are with them or with us… those women are always around. Taking up space.”
“Well, it is us who give them that space,” I counter. “They are basically living with us, every day and night.”
“And not paying any rent either,” F. laughs bitterly. “So, what do you propose, we evict them? Throw them out?”
I nod. “Nothing like midnight of a new year to do something like this”.
F. looks at me. “All right. You are the witch here, so tell me how.”
“Easy.” I say. “We just need two sheets of paper and some pens or crayons.”
In less than a minute, they are on the table. I tell her to take one of the papers and think about her boyfriend’s ex for a bit. I am doing the same. Concentrating on how I see her, how she sits in that space in my brain where I don’t want her.
“And now we draw something that symbolises them. Not a portrait, even if we both know how these women look. Just something that stands for them and how they occupy our minds.”
For a few minutes, there is silence, while we work on our drawings, closing our eyes from time to time to look inside. When we are finished, it is just ten minutes to midnight.
“What now?” F. asks. “Do we burn them? Put spills into them? Dissolve them in acid?”
I have to grin. “Would you do that to a rent scammer? A deadbeat lodger? No, we are remaining true to our metaphors here.”
I take my paper, look again at my drawing, at all the details of the unwanted tenant sitting in my brain, living off my feelings and thoughts without giving anything back.
I write “EVICTION NOTICE” right over it, from the lower left to the upper right, in big, uppercase letters, with the fattest marker on the table. F. watches me, then does the same.
“You have to believe in it,” I tell her. “You really have to want that space back, free, clean, to use as you like, without anybody occupying it.”
She nods, and underlines the writing in thick, black slashes. A good idea, I follow right up.
The first firecrackers can be heard outside, somebody always wants to ring in the year early with their noise.
I get up, taking the drawing with me and open the sliding door to the balcony. We both step outside, looking over the city illuminated here and there by little colourful explosions already. From downstairs, a television announcer is counting down the minutes, then the seconds.
I glance at my drawing again, then crush it between my hands into a tight ball. F. again follows my example. We listen to the countdown, and when it reaches the zero and the fireworks start in earnest, I raise my hand and throw the little ball of crumpled paper as far as I can.
“Be gone, unwanted lodger!” I shout, out into the noisy night. “Go away, live somewhere else, you are not welcome here anymore in this new year.”
F. throws her wad of paper right after mine and lets loose a liberating shriek of “Out with you!”
For a few moments, we just stand there, listening to the mayhem of a new year beginning in a big town. Then we look at each other, into our crazed, sparkling eyes, and start to laugh. A loud, braying kind of laughter. Cathartic.
We end up in each other’s arms, with tears on our faces. Feeling a bit empty, but good.
There are no more words spoken that night, not about absent lovers, not about their clinging exes.
We are busy reclaiming those spaces in our brains, and not only there.
Getting a marvellous start into the new year.
F. and I are spending the evening at her place.
We could have gone out dancing or having fun with friends, but we are not in the mood.
We’d rather have entered the new year with our lovers. But F’s boyfriend is still married and at home with wife and kids. Mine is at his house, with his ex who owns it with him and just might set it on fire if he doesn’t turn up.
Both of them have their reasons, and we probably have ours, because we each accept the situation we are in. We believe we love these men enough to tolerate all this. Or at least we tell ourselves we do.
But we spend a lot of time begrudging “the other” what they have with “our” men. We talk about why they keep insisting on being with somebody, who is openly in a new relationship. Why they blackmail them with the power they have over the children, or, in my case, a house that cannot be sold if one of the conjoint owners opposes herself.
We imagine, what they are doing right now, eating together, talking. And, in our darkest moments, we have pictured these women putting on make-up, sexy underwear and an intriguing scent, in order to possibly ring in this new year with a nice little reminder of what has been. And what could easily enough be again.
One more hour until midnight. F. puts down her third, or forth, glass of Prosecco and looks at me.
“Do we want to continue like this?” she asks. “Do we really want to start yet another year whining and worrying and supposing the worst?
I can only shake my head. No, I do not want this. I never did, but it just happened. I don’t know what to say, I am out of words.
F. has enough for both of us.
“We basically have no choice. Other than just send them packing. We have tried crying, seduction, pleading, setting ultimatums…”
“Ultimata”, I correct automatically.
“Whatever,” F. continues, “in any case, nothing has worked. The more we whine or demand, the less the men want to be with us. And in the end, they just stay more often with their exes, who don’t complain and are just…there.”
“That’s the problem,” I say. “That they are always there. For them, and in our brains.”
F. nods. “So, really it is the same thing if the guys are with them or with us… those women are always around. Taking up space.”
“Well, it is us who give them that space,” I counter. “They are basically living with us, every day and night.”
“And not paying any rent either,” F. laughs bitterly. “So, what do you propose, we evict them? Throw them out?”
I nod. “Nothing like midnight of a new year to do something like this”.
F. looks at me. “All right. You are the witch here, so tell me how.”
“Easy.” I say. “We just need two sheets of paper and some pens or crayons.”
In less than a minute, they are on the table. I tell her to take one of the papers and think about her boyfriend’s ex for a bit. I am doing the same. Concentrating on how I see her, how she sits in that space in my brain where I don’t want her.
“And now we draw something that symbolises them. Not a portrait, even if we both know how these women look. Just something that stands for them and how they occupy our minds.”
For a few minutes, there is silence, while we work on our drawings, closing our eyes from time to time to look inside. When we are finished, it is just ten minutes to midnight.
“What now?” F. asks. “Do we burn them? Put spills into them? Dissolve them in acid?”
I have to grin. “Would you do that to a rent scammer? A deadbeat lodger? No, we are remaining true to our metaphors here.”
I take my paper, look again at my drawing, at all the details of the unwanted tenant sitting in my brain, living off my feelings and thoughts without giving anything back.
I write “EVICTION NOTICE” right over it, from the lower left to the upper right, in big, uppercase letters, with the fattest marker on the table. F. watches me, then does the same.
“You have to believe in it,” I tell her. “You really have to want that space back, free, clean, to use as you like, without anybody occupying it.”
She nods, and underlines the writing in thick, black slashes. A good idea, I follow right up.
The first firecrackers can be heard outside, somebody always wants to ring in the year early with their noise.
I get up, taking the drawing with me and open the sliding door to the balcony. We both step outside, looking over the city illuminated here and there by little colourful explosions already. From downstairs, a television announcer is counting down the minutes, then the seconds.
I glance at my drawing again, then crush it between my hands into a tight ball. F. again follows my example. We listen to the countdown, and when it reaches the zero and the fireworks start in earnest, I raise my hand and throw the little ball of crumpled paper as far as I can.
“Be gone, unwanted lodger!” I shout, out into the noisy night. “Go away, live somewhere else, you are not welcome here anymore in this new year.”
F. throws her wad of paper right after mine and lets loose a liberating shriek of “Out with you!”
For a few moments, we just stand there, listening to the mayhem of a new year beginning in a big town. Then we look at each other, into our crazed, sparkling eyes, and start to laugh. A loud, braying kind of laughter. Cathartic.
We end up in each other’s arms, with tears on our faces. Feeling a bit empty, but good.
There are no more words spoken that night, not about absent lovers, not about their clinging exes.
We are busy reclaiming those spaces in our brains, and not only there.
Getting a marvellous start into the new year.