Right now I am living the 90/10/90 rule. It is a theory that for any project, 90% of the work takes 90% if the of time. Then the final 10%, even though you think it would be relatively easy, demanding the remaining 10% of effort. When in fact, that last bit takes as much effort, energy, concentration, and performance as did the first 90%. It kinda sneaks up on you, when you are doing the work, reaching the end of it, seeing the finish line, and then bam – it hits you like a slow motion reel in real life. Yesterday, I lived this while sorting through all – and I mean aaaaallllll – of the family photos. I had found a rhythm, it had gotten easy, when all of a sudden, I felt a lull. Then, I made the mistake of looking up, up from the singular, manageable pile of photos to survey the floor, the entire floor, of the room to regard a sea of photos. Wow – and try not to panic. Then I reminded myself of the rule of 90/10/90. Thank goodness, it wasn’t a deficiency of mine that I was finding this difficult, this was normal. This wasn’t a character flaw to ruminate over, descending into the pits of self deprecation and loathing. Nope, today I was just, simply, reassured. Today, I felt normal. Just conjure another 90%, no problem.

However, the next day, today today, the pile is still there. The group of piles, of photo boxes stands around the room like each its own little gremlin, waiting to, needing to go back in the box. After succumbing to the exhaustion caused by all the emotions that flooded out of those boxes like some sort of tsunami of nostalgia that at once knocked me over and then, pulled me under, deep under, confusing past with present, with my presence in the now, in this moment in time, in my life, in my story. All of my forgotten friends, lovers, memories, loves, and losses… so many losses.

I was jealous of those around me who could just be bright, not weighed down around their necks with sadness. They were my nemeses. I hated them, too busy hating them to ask myself why I had such a strong reaction to them. It was because they were, they had what I wanted – happiness, joy, a lightness I couldn’t quite reach. They had experienced love, of some sort. They had it, and I couldn’t figure out why, then, I hated them for it, but I did. Deeply, fully, in jealously. Alexis, Serena, and whoever else. Amanda, Kirsty. I hated them for having the family ties that I so desperately longed for. They had someone to check on them, to make sure that they were safe. That they shared their stories with. That gave them money if they needed it, that took them in. That told them that maybe, perhaps, I wasn’t the right friend for them. Maybe I was responsible for their bad decisions, not their own child. Laura even. But her mother never blamed me for anything, not that I know of. There may have been a time in which yes, momentarily, I was a bad influence, but with Laura that time passed and I became a last hope. But seeing as she was not one to get involved, too much, her mother Kate left her well enough alone. She did her best, when she could, but it was not enough.

So easy it is to go down that spiral, that whirlpool. No wonder that last 10% is tricky. Ending is hard, just as hard as being in it for the other 90% of the time. Finishing is another story, where all the action in a story comes together for the climax and the the denouement. It is the most important part of the story, in a classic narrative. So on I must go, and finish it.

I sat here today to write about one person, one part of my past. Matthew, and his tousled, floppy curls. His brand of innocent, boyish charm that only an Englishman could have. The sweetness and loneliness behind his eyes. All of it, in a stocky, solid body that was at once reassuring and undeniably sexy. Strong and vulnerable, soft and poetic, and prone to binging and lashing out, just like me.

I deeply believe that our relationship would have been perfect as just good friends. We had a lot to understand in each other, to admire, to heal, to enjoy together. But there is something about man and women, especially when they are in their full-hotness era, and full of themselves, that they feel inclined to go all of the way into each other – mentally, emotionally, and physically – until they can’t stand it. And so this is just what we did.

He liked me first, he kissed me first. I was surprised that he liked me, and that he kissed me, but also amazed by the fact that I had completely surpassed that part where I like someone and am not sure if it is mutual. Always looking for an in, a chance to find out, I was inclined to make things happen on my own. Leaving the surprise of the first kiss out of the equation was just something that I thought I was much more comfortable with – making it happen on my own, taking the first step, making the first move. Turns out that this too was probably also a way to protect my own heart, to push the mere potential of rejection to the forefront, to take control, by begging the question in real time. Do you like me? Just kiss me, then. This time though, he took the risk. He kissed me goodnight. I was surprised, as I thought of him only as a friend, although a hot one, and an English one, which in my mind really doubled the hotness factor.

I remember riding in the taxi home, on that wet Sunday night in the late Chicago winter. I thought about how nice that surprise was, how unexpected. Maybe I could just let this happen, let it unfold, let it continue to surprise me. All the way down to Pilsen, the ride must have been. It’s all a bit of a blur now. I am sure it is Pilsen as I remember hungover mornings there, with him. Sunlit spring mornings, in his loft bedroom, one and then the next. The big windows, industrial beautiful that let in the light, softly, and silently. His was a place of repose for my soul. He was a kindred spirit for mine, at the time. We both needed quiet, needed peace, needed companionship. We both needed a place away from the outside, scary world, that moved too fast for us. We needed a pause, a safe and warm place, and someone to share the colours in the shadows with, to look at them, admire their dark beauty, with. That was us: together, sad, comfortable. Alone, together. I believe that both of us, being aesthetically inclined, took comfort and pleasure in the other, in looking at the other, in being with the other. He was magnificent to look at with his beautiful, deep eyes; chiseled face; soft, curly hair just long enough on top to run my fingers through; broad, tight shoulders. I know now that the tension in those tight shoulders was from years of unprocessed emotions but then, I just found them protective. Oh, how much I have learned since then.

I speak of him now because of that big pile of photos, collection of boxes and boxes on the back room floor in the house that belonged to my mother and for now is my only family home, the home of my ancestors that hold all that is left, the remnants and the ruins. They are all there, for now at least, for us to excavate. Today it is Matthew, his sweet soft curls and his polite demeanor, his sharp and observant sense of humour, his comments often too quiet for most to hear, but I did, and laughed, smirked quietly while exchanging a knowing glance. Today it is love and empathy, remembrance of the goodness that was in them and in me. There is also the other side, the inverse. The rage and the jealousy, the mistrust and the violence, in him and us and me. There is not blame there but merely recollection, a recall that is still a bit untouchable. For first, I must remember the love, the goodness, the innocence that is in every beginning, when two souls meet and recognise each other, in each other.

For now it is remembering – that in every beginning there is that innocence, that hope that there is finally a kindred spirit, open and willing, to be there, to exist, at once with yours. This is not a minor event. No, this is major, this is everything. How could anything in all of the human experience be more important that this, than meeting another soul that would like to interweave with yours? How miraculous in and of itself. How is it that we are prone to at once marvel at this and yet also, take this for granted. Unless it is exactly in the gratitude that we can realise and live in its enormity. By taking it for granted we are simply denying its enormity and therefore limiting its impact – either positive or negative – that it might have on our lives. Protection, it seems, is something that we implore, not only from bad things but also from good. Only opening up a little, or opening too much through drugs, alcohol, or even the drunkenness in giving trust or love too early, too freeely, makes for complicated connections and trust, in deed. It creates a risk that is hard for our heads and hearts to manage. So, we learn to protect, at all costs, through fighting, through denying feelings. Unable to communicate in loving ways, we resort to the worst that we know, because at least the complicated feelings, misunderstood in the truest sense of the word, get out of the body, either through arguing, yelling, crying or fucking; all offer relief.

But for now, I will just think of the young man in the photo with his sideways, wayward glance, with his curls, flopping about in the wind, the sweetness of his heart and the softness of his skin. I imagine that this photo was taken on the very first warm day of Spring, that year in Chicago in May, many weeks after that very first kiss on a Sunday night in the doorway of his drafty Mid-River loft. It was long after the night he’d come to find me at the Gay Night at the club to tell me, urgently, that he’d realised that I was his muse. It was after, on that warm and windy day, when we were our happiest. We were beautiful, young, in love – with ourselves and with each other. It was not a deep love, but a love that made the other feel safe as each of us finally felt the love that we so believed that we deserved. As we made our way through the city streets to the lakefront, to just lay in the grass, in love. It was the most perfect day that we had, in love, together. It was everything, it was bliss, it was the best we ever were, together.