A Holiday of Dreams


I watched an old movie tonight: Roman Holiday, with Audrey Hepburn in her first starring role, as a princess who escapes her obligations for 24 hours on the town, with Gregory Peck as the newspaperman who shares her day.  In 1953, it was far easier to believe that people from different worlds could fall in love, but not that there would be a happy ending.  In the end, they must each return to their respective worlds.

Me and Karen.  It has been fun sharing lunches and a few laughs, discussing the stories we read and the movies we watched, even though we never did those things together.  It was quite a holiday from my boring life, and perhaps Karen enjoyed having someone new to talk to.   I certainly enjoyed listening to her, watching her smile when she talked about Halloween, and her decorations and the life-size horror diorama she sets up on her lawn every year.  It gives her a lot of happiness.  I don’t know if I gave her anything but my strict attention.  Perhaps that’s all she needed.

I knew all along how impossible it was, but somehow, I allowed myself to fantasize, to hope, to imagine.  I guess one never outgrows romance, once one accepts that there is such a  thing.  Who knows?

I guess it’s time for us to return to our separate worlds now.  She’s no princess, and I’m no writer, but it’s certainly analogous to our situation.  30 years?  Too far apart.  Just too different.  I think she’s like me in many ways, but really, she’s only 27, and there’s so much she has yet to experience.  She has so much fun yet to have, and love to enjoy too.  I wanted so much to be a part of that.  I don’t know why I see my younger self in her, and why that was so important for me.  It sure surprised me to find out that there are people like her.  Perhaps I’ve just never let myself really know anyone before.  Of course, I hardly know her at all.  So much of what I think I know is all in my imagination.  

No, she’s not really like me after all. She has friends, family, and dreams. The only dream I’ve had is being with her.

I saw an old friend at a Salsa concert the other day.  She said that I’ve always been a loner.   Perhaps I am slightly autistic after all; I certainly have the difficulties in social interaction and restricted, stereotyped interests and activities, along with the motor clumsiness of those with asperger’s syndrome.  Not impaired, just different.  Of course, so many people think they are unique and different, but really aren’t.   I’ve never understood why social interactions are so difficult for me, why I had to question everything in order to learn to at least partially interact with others.  Lots of lovers, some friends, and two or three marriages, but, in the end, I’m unable to understand what’s going on, or what my responses should be.

Karen told me the other day that her friends take her to dinner and parties.  I should have asked, “So, I’m not a friend?” but I already know the answer, because all interaction outside of work is inappropriate, she says.   I can’t even speak up when she gives me openings like that.  It all seems so unreal, like it’s happening to someone else far away, and I’m not even there.

I see her sitting there on the grass, so clearly, so beautiful and lovely.  The light clothing, the untanned areas of exposed skin.  A smile on her face, but I just say something about how she’s dressed for the sun but she is sitting in the shade.  It was cold in the cafeteria, she said, as least the way she was dressed.  I turned to the cafeteria and ran to get something to eat, to sit with her there on the grass, but she was gone.  She may have even been preparing to leave as I saw her.  I have no idea why I rushed away without even saying anything else.

I have to be some kind of idiot.  I just don’t know what else explains such behavior.

It’s times like this when I really wish I’d die soon, because I just don’t know what’s left for me.  I went to a singles’ picnic, had a good enough time, met someone interesting; I asked her out and she said yes.  It doesn’t excite me or anything.  I feel sort of like I’m just going through motions.  Where am I? Where did I go?  Why am I talking to myself?  Why this dissociation?

Just life, I guess.

Went home early from work yesterday; I could barely tolerate being there.  At home I slept some, ate, tried to watch the Hepburn movie, but ended up cutting and drilling some wood pieces to fix my cutting board.  I enjoyed that.  Next project is getting the bicycle running again.   I need a fork tube for the motorcycle too.  One thing at a time, and then the next, and the next.  Just the way it is.  No reason to expect anything more out of life than that, really.


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