The Miracle in July

Give it to me, love
I’ll keep you in my focus
with love and affection

[Love, Love, Love (Love, Love)] by [As Tall As Lions]

No matter how potent the safety of black-and-white truths are to me, I can never discount the Technicolor symbols in the stories I tell myself while asleep. I exist somewhere between the comfort of accuracy and the prospects of dreams, where [little by little] each state of consciousness trolls a version of reality before my judging ego to assist me in deciding what I believe in.

The printed words are my benchmark facts; they provide a stable foundation for analysis. I understand what words mean, and I comprehend the rules we abide by to give words meaning. Yes, words and language are flexible — but also finite. There are limited variations of significance when words are grouped together.

My dreams are another matter altogether. They are perpetually pregnant with possible meaning. Like traveling circus mirrors, reflecting volumes about the suspended belief I live in. A developing theory for my life is there in the waves of glass; the image is familiar enough to define what I see using words. The images of my life in the mirror’s ripples are altered by the time of day, the weather, and the town in which the circus tents have been staked. The meaning of my dreams, unlike words, are infinite. There is no [wrong] or right, only the suggestion of another way of perceiving truth.

Several times since arriving in Denmark I have dreamt about Pops being here with me. In sleep he seems more shriveled and sickly than I remember him. He is often frail and covered with a blanket, and wearing a woolen [Pendleton cap]. It’s the same one I gave as a gift to Daniel’s oldest child, a boy with wheat-colored hair and a collector of fine head apparel. Pops’ beard morphs from scene to scene, his usual bushy Santa-white darkens and recedes into Daniel’s black stubble, and then growing bushy and white again.

My father and I are at the Hug Point cabin, but it is now in Denmark. The starlings and their shit-glazed tree have joined us as a silhouette just outside the window, blocking the view of a spectacular plasma-red sunset. We don’t talk about his death and I ignore his sadness, because that’s what he wants me to do. And I can feel his pride in my successes, and also his confusion about why I am still looking in the past for answers. The starlings titter on their gray branches, and we turn to look at them. They chirp the irony that none of us — not the birds, my father, or myself — know what good might come out of probing the ashes of my digital love story. But we do know it won’t bring dead things back to life.

Here in Denmark I wake up terribly cold and damp with the taste of mourning in my mouth. I flee the little house to the [Strøge], pushed along by a Scandinavian chill that makes my scars ache. I climb up the winding staircase above the bookstore to [Baresso] where I order a morning sneer and tiramisu latte from one of the attractive young Danes behind the counter. Their clear, tan skin and generally dismissive attitude bolsters me. I take it for myself to adopt, and ignite my icy return to the sentimental birds and the artifactual contents of the shoebox. I can then continue pouring my muddled, fluid memories into the rigid mold of the printed words. It is absolutely useless to guess what symbol will be released when the casting is set.

Years ago, however, I was busy creating the memories I sift through today. I remember making giggling, disjointed conversation with Becca on the drive home from [Hug Point] — back to Portland and technology  — but my mind was fixed on my relationship with Daniel. It was at a crossroad. A few days without communication had made my affection for Daniel even more acute. I missed him very much, and I longed to know if his heart had grown fonder or cooler during our separation. I both dreaded and yearned for the moment when we would talk again because I would know if something had changed between us.

I spent our time apart gently shaking the image of our future to reveal the cracks, slowly calculating the astronomical challenges of our incomplete romance. We would have to work hard to keep our intangible relationship alive. I found the hours spent tied to a computer in order to talk and make love inconvenient, and the intensity of our love exhausting. I was sleep-deprived and hungover from hyper-arousal. I had stopped gaining weight, and was still too thin.

And there was the question of what would happen when Daniel was no longer unemployed, when he was unable spend his days writing beautiful pornographic love letters to me or creating image manipulations of me sucking his cock. He should be out winning parts in short films to play the Nazi, the car thief, or the other man. There would be far fewer bubbles of Daniel’s words floating on my computer screen, narrating his life. “I am watching [Caligula] — the unrated version — and eating delicious pizza. It’s an absolutely explicit horrible, disgusting and awful film. But fascinating.” “Yeah, the mail came. Bills.” “Søren is here and we’re brilliant! Tell you more soon, baby!” Soon the hours he spent with me would be cashed in for kroner to pay rent on his new apartment. And there was an important feature film in which he’d just been cast as lead actor.

There were so many things to love about my relationship with Daniel. I had permission to be myself, and I took advantage of it. Why not? There was a hardship in loving someone like Daniel in the way that we had to love, and I felt a certain boldness in demanding to be taken for what I was. I was dirty the way I wanted be, Daniel courting my fantasies in an erotic Venetian story involving a threesome with the bell boy, and I emailed Daniel with a video of myself masturbating. I told him I believed a woman who self-pleasures herself in front of her man was a woman who trusted him completely. Daniel was understandably appreciative.

Sex wasn’t everything between us anymore. Our personal lives — our families — were now involved. And with Daniel I could be all the facets that I was made of: a sweetly naughty, sassy, moody, cheesy, doting, creative girl in love with a dirty, sassy, moody, cheesy, doting, creative boy. Who lived in Denmark. [Hell knows I’m in love], I thought. I wanted his love, his marvelous shadows and light that were so like mine. But something would have to change.

My cell phone chirped to life when a signal was within range as we headed back from Hug Point. Three text messages were waiting for me.

One was sent while I was heading to the coast:

I’m really going to miss you Shelley. I love you. Have fun!

One was sent a couple of days later:

Just in case you happen to get a signal — because for some strange twist of reason love’s cupid might have pity on me, remember: no fucking other boys.

One was sent just a few hours previously:

I miss you. D

I was relieved to see these messages, and so happy when Daniel again spoke to me in his usual sharp and fawning way, both stoic and lovelorn. He had missed me; he had dreamt of joining me at Hug Point, the flowing white curtains blowing in the Pacific Ocean breeze as we made love to the sound of crashing surf. How lovely that would be someday, I thought. But what could we be right now?

Daniel: damn girl - how’d I get so lucky huh?
Me: you’re one-in-a-trillion lucky minus 5000 miles
Daniel: lol
I love your sense of humor — It’s closely related to mine — I don’t see that very often
Me: this is a very special thing we have going, isn’t it
Daniel: yes, I think so, I really do.
Me: its not just virtual anymore
Daniel: in some ways yes it is, but now you’re all over my mind at all times. It’s crazy - wouldn’t have thought it like this.
Me:
Daniel: going to work tomorrow?
Me: *sigh* yep
Daniel: damn this work thing
I need to get a job this week as well or my bankconnection will kill me
with a shotgun
Me: that sounds un-fun. prospects?
Daniel: some
Me: confident?
Daniel: well, I lack the urge to do something I don’t wanna, just to get money, but there you go - bills have to be paid, and bankconnections need to get assurance. But I can get a job, course I can. I have a teacher job, and a job as an internet consultant I can apply for
Me: as someone who sold her freelance soul to a corporation, I feel for you
Daniel: damn work — I just wanna have fun with the things that I burn for. Doesn’t seem like work when I act.
Me: fucking sucks
I so want the world to see you shine
and a 9-5 will cut into you + me time
=(
Daniel: yes it does. my mornings will be fucked and my evenings will still be in your work hours
Me: I know. it will change things.
Daniel: well have to make the best of it. Do you agree? Please say you agree.
Me: I agree, because my love isn’t virtual
I want to be in this relationship with you
Daniel: I didn’t mean to say my love for you is virtual, it’s not. It’s real. (I’ve got Rammstein thundering out my satellites — [Mein Herz Brennt] — cheesy huh??) only, the only contact we have as of yet is through this media. I find that frustrating. I wanna see you, I wanna talk to you. I want you. Maybe I can get an evening job? I missed you so much this weekend, and that tells me, that I love you very much.
sweetness?
want you to come and stay for a while
Me: I just can’t put into words how much you mean to me.
This has never happened to me before.
Daniel: fucked up we are so far apart huh? But we’ll get there I’m sure. I have the will - you have the will - it will be bliss
Me: Like this, but blisstastic? =)
Daniel: this is bliss alright darling. But it can be soooo much better
Me: there is a message from Becca
“I get to touch Shelley’s soft skin whenever I want *strokes Shelley’s soft skin* Nah-na-na-na-na!”
(she’s a bit of a bitch, isn’t she?)
Daniel: damn girl, tell her I’m going all the way
Me: You know what?
I am too
I’m going all the way and turning in that application for a passport.
Just to put it out there, and see what happens.
I want to follow my bliss
It leads me to you

And then there was the day that Daniel made me wait too long to learn that the next phase of our relationship had begun.

“Hvor er du?” I punched into the chat window. “Where are you?”

Daniel: Hot damn baby - I’m soooo fucking busy
Me: hm?
Daniel: I got the damn job, and I’ve been preparing for classes, meetings, all that shit. Also I’ve had to fulfill some social obligations, so I’ve hardly been home
Me: so now you’re “damned” angry that I’m wanting you to send me at least a fucking email to let me know you got the job?
its a fucking email for christ’s sakes
Daniel: …uhm…..are you upset with me?
Me: fuk yes
Daniel: I’m sorry, I’ve been flying from one thing to the next, and well, I thought I’d be able to catch you now…
Me: are you one of those people who doesn’t do what they say they’re going to do without nudging?
Daniel: excuse me?
Me: and hand-holding?
Daniel: uhm
Me: you got the job that changes us
you kept that to yourself
Daniel: no
Me: did you tell me?
Daniel: I got it the day before yesterday and started yesterday, I’m telling you now babe
don’t be angry with me
 please?

Daniel changed his instant message chat avatar to a movie still shot. It’s of him in the dark, dark fake blood running from his hair down the lines in his face. I laughed out loud.

Me: I’m angry because of this…
you got a job that changes us,
three days ago.
now our time is even more limited
and you missed our chance to talk by headset on Monday and didn’t say that you would miss it.
So what, yes I hurt when we go a few days not communicating
but I can endure
but this is about a crucial thing that is happening that changes the dynamics of us. permanently.
our relationship requires creativity, and I deserve at least a fucking email to know you got the job that changes us
and that phone conversations are now on hold until weekends if we can manage it
do you understand? fuk I feel better yelling at you.
but you need to do what you say you will do. that’s the kind of person I am.
Daniel: You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m not going to line up excuses tho there are a few - you’re right and I should have sent you an email. Least I could do.
Me: thank you. I know there are excuses…good ones, too.
there are always good ones.
but we need to keep us a priority or this just isn’t going to work
All I’m asking for is a note here and there to know you love me. do you agree? Shit I’m making you late, aren’t I?
Daniel: Late for what? It’s 4 PM here. I’ve been to work. I’m trying to get a hold of my home - it’s a mess - clothes all over, dishes, I need to vacuum and all that. If the real estate agent calls, everything has to be in order, neat and tidy or I’ll get kicked out because the apartment is for sale. My head is filled up with new books, names, schedules and classes.
I’m not late for anything — maybe I’m going to my parents tonight to eat, they don’t know that I got the job either. I’ve had next to minimum sleep.
Me: do you agree?
Daniel: Oh and yes I agree
oh yeah
sorry babe

“[If you really want me],” I said, “if you really want this, for real, things will have to change.”

At the end of that argument I was wrecked. It left my heart racing and apologetic. I was unsettled that day, heavy in my step and slow to surface when someone needed my attention. I had tried not to fight with Jake. The one time we did Jake said I was too harsh, and I most likely was. With Daniel, with the monumental effort that went into loving someone so far away, I felt I had to be allowed to call bullshit when I saw it. If this relationship wasn’t real or enough for either of us, then why continue?

It was a mythical relationship, and I needed to put in motion something else, put something else out there that would bring Daniel and I together. Really and truly together. There had to be [hope for the hopeless] romance I was in. I had mailed out my passport application in good faith, but it would take more money than I had to make use of it. After a fitful night of overlapping scenarios masquerading as a night’s sleep, I woke with the idea that I should call the court house that handled the paperwork for my father’s estate.

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The Miracle in July is the work of author Michelle Anderson.