Genre: Lyric Essay
I struggle sometimes, sometimes more than most times, to stay occupied with myself rather than occupied by others. And it feels, most times, that I put more thought into others, not always in the best ways, than I put into myself. So, I’m constantly asking myself - with whom do my loyalties lie? And what does loyalty do? Am I more loyal to others than I am to myself? Ooo. This can’t be true. I’m not loyal. Am I important to myself? Is my self-importance important? No, I am not. Yes, it is. Ooo, I don’t know. Ooo.
I say all this to a woman who sits, legs crossed, in a comfortable chair before me. I assume her chair is comfortable because she looks comfortable sitting in it. Objects touched by people take easily to the mood of the person who touches. The chair is blue. The chair is the type of chair a therapist sits in. The woman sitting in the chair is a therapist. These observations are certain. And the simplest certainty comes as comfort in the silence after a question is asked to the self.
I realize I’m sitting in the same chair, one of two in her apartment. In her apartment is a pair of chairs and I’m sitting in one and she is in the other. One of the pair of chairs is comfortable. The other is contemplating its capabilities in interpersonal relationships.
The chairs are similar to the pair of chairs I have in my own apartment. Her chairs are blue but with more stuffing. My therapist has put a green throw over her chairs that makes them look more expensive than mine. She is more expensive than I, and likewise her chairs. I sit and talk for free. She is paid by the minute to nod, smile, talk. I pay her to listen as I spit and mumble and squawk.
Sometimes I feel like my meetings with her are like a class. Sometimes I feel like she’s teaching me about myself. Most of the time I don’t understand what she is trying to teach me. Most of the time, like one does in an uninteresting class, I pretend to understand. Nod, listen, and contemplate a pair of chairs. And I don’t feel very bad about this, because I know that she is pretending to understand. Now she is talking. While she is talking I am half listening and half contemplating the chairs. Now she has stopped talking and my contemplation goes from the chairs to what I will say next – after this silence, after I decide what I will say about what I’m tying to say about myself.
I’ve been thinking a lot about wire hangers lately, I say. About how they bend – about how I bend like them. And I’m not sure if she follows me, but I feel I'm saying something interesting, so I don’t stop. If I’m a wire hanger and I bend myself out of shape to pick a lock, how easily do I bend back into my original shape hang a shirt? Because someone, a writer I think, said that hangers can do that. But I’m not terribly convinced they can really do that. And if I am a hanger, am I the kind that does do that? I don’t leave room for her to answer me, because I’m almost certain she disagrees, does not understand, is not listening, is contemplating her chair. And for a moment my statement resounds, the words coming back to me so that I hear what I've said, the sound how I've said it.
I said ‘a writer, I think’ as though I was unsure of who wrote about a wire hanger and bending to dry shirts and unlock doors. I said 'I think,' despite the embarrassing fact that 'I know' without a doubt the writer was Annie Proulx. It was Ms. Proulx. It was Ms. Annie Proulx who, some time ago, wrote about gay cowboys and wire hangers, stiff and rigid, unlocking doors -- drying tear-wet shirts.
I do not wait for my therapist’s response. I do not wait because I am afraid she will know this too (know it was Annie Proulx). She will not understand but turn the conversation to 'Brokeback Mountain.' From there th conversation will no doubt turn, steer itself like a herd of sweat-soaked cattle, to how I feel about being gay. And then perhaps she will mention that she likes my cowboy boots. Or how much she dislikes Annie Proulx.
I think I do. I think I do do that, I say. I think I bend back and forth a lot. Do you like doing that, she says. Does it feel good? I’m not sure, I think to myself. I’m not sure, I say to her. I just worry that I may break eventually. Hangers, they break, right? If you bend them too much, they break. I’m not sure, she thinks. I'm not sure, she says to me. I’m not sure if she means she's unsure about hangers or if she's unsure about me. Or perhaps she's unsure how much she likes my boots.
Which one, I say, the hanger or me? And I can’t believe she still looks so comfortable, because God knows I need a cigarette at this point. God knows this and so do I. I lean back in the chair. Now the chair is creaking with my lean. For a moment I think the creaking sounds like the chair’s small voice. The chair that is one of a pair. The less comfortable of the chairs. The chair that is saying in a small, creaking voice that it very badly needs a cigarette, that it is tired of all this, that it does not believe that a therapist is anymore revealing than a good lay, a weekend on a farm, a chapter of Annie Proulx's gay cowboys.
This chair is saying, but I'm not sure to who, 'what does one say when there's nothing to be done? what does one say when there's nothing to do?'
