Old Haunts

I've been taking a class in the Writer's Program at UCLA Extension. Tonight I gave my driving jitters a break and came out early before the traffic got jammed and agressive. On campus for the first time while there was still some daylight, I noticed that the building where my class is held is very near the Law School. I went in and had a look around, used the restroom, and tried to figure out why it all looked so familiar. It was The Someone who went to law school there--not me. But I guess there were presentations or award ceremonies or something. Or maybe I gave him a ride a couple of times when his car was in the shop. And I think there was a cocktail party or two.

I'm always amazed how a place can roil the waters of memory and before I know it there are bodies floating on the surface. Last week after class, I decided to take city streets home instead of braving Freeway detours, Cal Trans' late night habit of road work, and the outtage of dozens of lights. Dark strange roads plummet me into a panicked despair. Driving through streets and neighborhoods that I haven't travelled since the 70s took me on a different sort of detour. I had conversations with The Someone. Sometimes these talks are replays of real conversations that we had in the past--or at least the gist of them. Sometimes I'm talking to him in the here and now. Inventing conversations that will never happen. But really, if I saw him in person, I wouldn't rush over and get chatty. So why do I talk to him in my head? And how do I stop?

Bad News/Good News

There were many bitter things about my divorce.
I especially resented that Mr. Ex didn't fess up and tell me that I could have gone to grad school on the moon. His secret romance was in full bloom by the time I came to my geeze-the-nest-is-nigh-unto-empty senses and began applyingto MFA programs. Depite the fact I had teachers who wanted me to shoot for a full on residential program at UC Irvine, I couldn't see how that would fit into my married life. Low res seemed like the wifely thing to do. I applied to 3 programs and got into all of them, but I once again went with the wifely option and chose a program in Mr. Ex's home state of Nebraska.  A new-ish rather unproven program.
When I left for my first residency the day after Christmas I was still living without furniture in my new place. I had a wall unit made from moving boxes and two blue nylon camp chairs in my living room. I was sick by the time the plane landed. My throat felt like it had a dirty sock lodged in it, and I couldn't breathe through my nose. I downed two Lemon Drops in the bar and bought dried mangoe slices coated with chili pepper  during my layover in Vegas and added an upset stomach to my aliments. I thought the tonic part of the gin and tonics might soothe my stomach on the plane ride to Omaha.
I did not want to be in Nebraska.
I couldn't talk because my throat was sore. I couldn't think  or read because my brokeness had traveled north from my heart and rented a room in my  brain. I couldn't write.
But things got better. Friends. Amazing mentors. A realization that my metaphors still live in the midwest.
And now this: the program I chose solely because of Mr. Ex comes in at #11 http://www.pw.org/content/2011_mfa_rankings_the_top_ten_lowresidency_programs in a new set of rankings.
And I graduated from there, quite happily. So, gee, Mr. Ex, thanks!

I do think it would be damn decent of Mr. Ex to reimburse me for my tuition though. I worked two jobs to put him through UCLA law school.