As of yet Untitled
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
A false start?
I tend to stay calm. It's my natural default. I've often been told that this is a deficiency, that my calmness is irrational, that I am emotionless. I have ruined plenty of relationships due to my calm demeanor. Just because I'm calm, I often say, does not mean I am without emotion. Once, when I was a sophmore in college, my girlfreind at the time confessed to an affair she'd been having with another student. Someone I didn't know. Never even had heard of him, and couldn't tell you his name now if you asked. I remained calm. It's what I do. And calmly I asked her if she had plans to see him again, if she wanted to break up with me, and all the other common questions one is prone to ask when confronted with heartbreak. I was devestad, though mainaing my calm. It's just how I am. She screamed and cried and yelled at me asking why I didn't care. I did care. But I remained calm.
So far, in my life, there have only been two people able to cut through my calm, who were able to see through my demeanor, and realize that I am not my calm, instead, how my emotions are expressed through my calm. The first: Jenny who is not my daughter. I don't have a daughter. In fact I don't have any children. I would like to be a father one day. I have known Jenny all her life, though she is not my daughter, or even any relation of mine what so ever. I shall endevor to explain, though not quite yet.
The second: Miriam, my wife, the love of my life. We met my senior year of college and until I met her I had no concept of what the term "true love" meant. True love, I learned was not something grand, not a fantastic sort of thing that builds bridges and saves lives and conquors small nations that it's made out to be in the movies. True love is quiet, and calm, and comfortable. Something that, even if immediate, occurs slowly and grows over time. How we met is almost completely unremarkable. I was one general education credit shy of my degree, so in the last semester of my senior year I took a desk in the middle of a two hundred seat lecture hall for psychology 101. As the room slowly filled, for reason I'll never know, and Miriam has never explained, instead of sitting with her boyfreind, she abruptly turned away, walked up three rows, turned to me and said in regards to the open seat on my right, "Is this seat taken?" I said no, and the rest is history.
Jenny is not my daughter. I am far too young, and she is far too old for me to have fathered her. She is sixteen, I am twenty-seven. She is a cute thin Asian girl with almond shaped hazel eyes, a flat and slightly upturned nose, and long wavy dark plum colored hair. Though I once was considered thin, age, time, and lack of excersize has turned me from someone noticibly fit, to someone now ten to fifteen pounds overweight. I have an unfortunately large and slightly crooked nose, short brown hair, and skin color of a mixed, though very european decent, beige. The only thing we have in common is our hazel colored eyes, but this is not enough for any stranger to imagine we might be, in the slightest, related.
The reason for this clarification; if you were to walk up to Jenny and ask her who her father is, she will say, "Rufus Firefly," which is my name. It is both an unfortunate, and luckily little known coincidence that Rufus Firely is not only my name, but the name of Grocho Marx's character in the Marx Brother's Duck Soup. It is me to whom she refers when she says "Rufus Firely"; not Grocho Marx - just to be clear. Not that this really needs clarification, as it has yet to occur that anyone assumed she meant Grocho Marx and not me, but just in case you are the first, I want to disuade that notion from your thoughts. ¶ 4/11/2007 02:34:00 PM 1 comments
So far, in my life, there have only been two people able to cut through my calm, who were able to see through my demeanor, and realize that I am not my calm, instead, how my emotions are expressed through my calm. The first: Jenny who is not my daughter. I don't have a daughter. In fact I don't have any children. I would like to be a father one day. I have known Jenny all her life, though she is not my daughter, or even any relation of mine what so ever. I shall endevor to explain, though not quite yet.
The second: Miriam, my wife, the love of my life. We met my senior year of college and until I met her I had no concept of what the term "true love" meant. True love, I learned was not something grand, not a fantastic sort of thing that builds bridges and saves lives and conquors small nations that it's made out to be in the movies. True love is quiet, and calm, and comfortable. Something that, even if immediate, occurs slowly and grows over time. How we met is almost completely unremarkable. I was one general education credit shy of my degree, so in the last semester of my senior year I took a desk in the middle of a two hundred seat lecture hall for psychology 101. As the room slowly filled, for reason I'll never know, and Miriam has never explained, instead of sitting with her boyfreind, she abruptly turned away, walked up three rows, turned to me and said in regards to the open seat on my right, "Is this seat taken?" I said no, and the rest is history.
Jenny is not my daughter. I am far too young, and she is far too old for me to have fathered her. She is sixteen, I am twenty-seven. She is a cute thin Asian girl with almond shaped hazel eyes, a flat and slightly upturned nose, and long wavy dark plum colored hair. Though I once was considered thin, age, time, and lack of excersize has turned me from someone noticibly fit, to someone now ten to fifteen pounds overweight. I have an unfortunately large and slightly crooked nose, short brown hair, and skin color of a mixed, though very european decent, beige. The only thing we have in common is our hazel colored eyes, but this is not enough for any stranger to imagine we might be, in the slightest, related.
The reason for this clarification; if you were to walk up to Jenny and ask her who her father is, she will say, "Rufus Firefly," which is my name. It is both an unfortunate, and luckily little known coincidence that Rufus Firely is not only my name, but the name of Grocho Marx's character in the Marx Brother's Duck Soup. It is me to whom she refers when she says "Rufus Firely"; not Grocho Marx - just to be clear. Not that this really needs clarification, as it has yet to occur that anyone assumed she meant Grocho Marx and not me, but just in case you are the first, I want to disuade that notion from your thoughts. ¶ 4/11/2007 02:34:00 PM 1 comments
