It started with the hands


Sent on September 22th 2011

This was the first turning point, the sight of your hands, despite your ringing finger. After seeing that, it was easy to live.

Then I came to you, twice, and then you came to me, repeatedly, and then you snatched me away. A year ago, today. It went by not just in a flash, but in a week.

If I start to think about what I did more deeply, I might get a little panicky. Everything I’ve known all my life till now is about 777 km away. Alas, so far, so good, said the man falling off the roof, right?

This may sound a little cynical but it’s not. I’m not one to panic, especially if there is no reason. Things have been improving all the time. The IKEA nesting syndrome is concluded, which has resulted in several new acquisitions. You seem to be happiest fixing, or better planning and then fixing.

4-3-14 003

Expedit, buy you can call him Shady. Photo: MM14-4-14 030Fabian shelves: we have our books

How you plan to fix me is still a mystery to me, since I see myself unfixable. Or can it be that you really don’t want to? You see, I’m still amazed at the possibility that you really love me as I am. Recently you mentioned a famous Italian singer and said of her that she may be nice, but not beautiful. Not with her nose. As it is, when I was watching her concert on the TV, she seemed spectacularly beautiful to me.

There is the whole world, and then there is me, and you, such a perfectionist, have chosen me?

I can see you get mad a little at this. You will ask me again how come my self-esteem is so low. And my jaw will drop open and I’ll think of all the times I’ve stood for myself in my life, all the times I was rebelling, taking my stand, telling people the truth, learning how to approach people who wanted to belittle me or make me feel unworthy and shut them the fuck up. And now you feel this from me, lack of self-esteem.

This must be a cultural thing, too. It seems that I hail from a nation of nagging closet passive aggressive sado-masochists, ridden by the inferiority complex and with the history of succumbing (waves, love you anyway). My mom’s first thought after having me was something like: “Mmmm how I love strawberries. But now I’m not allowed to any more, now I must stop loving them so much!”

And you? You’re Italian. You built Broccolino (=Brooklyn) with your own hands. Your team looks good in their Armani jerseys even when losing. Your policemen strut around like models (that line on the pants… telling ya…). Possibly it’s your assuredness that I love so much, apart from all the other constituent parts that make you you. (Tina Maze and her Italian, anyone?)

When you get to know someone online, you will, naturally, only know them at the moments when they wish to deal with you. When they don’t, they will be offline, for example. And now there is no offline. I’m learning about how much cave time you need, what to do when you’re fuming, how to snatch the dog from under your feet just in time.

And you are learning too, oh, I bet you are, it’s just that I can’t see it as clearly. I often feel needy, or better I feel, and fear, that you see me as such. I watch your mood swings closely, trying to figure out how to make you feel better all the time, never worse. But the worst feeling in the world is when I’m not reaching you, no matter what I do. Yet this is happening less and less frequently.

We have been living together for exactly a year now. Have been: living, loving, getting good, getting better. There is a reason why this tense is called Present Perfect Continuous. It’s now, it’s constantly nearing perfection (or at least improving, since perfection has such an ultimately unreachable ring to it), and hell yeah, it continues.

≈ Manja Maksimovič ≈

8-2-14 029

A black and white selfie since it was taken on Slovenian Culture Day

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