Tradwife Existential Hum
I went to church yesterday morning with my Mother, Father, and Mr. Verdi.
I know this probably comes as a shock if you’re caught up on the brief history of my relationship with him and my long history of commitment issues.
I got home (midwest) last week in kind of a flurry. Was working until ten the night before (day job😝) and made it to the gym before close, because if I don’t get some endorphins in my brain, I start to go nuts. My ex would point this out whenever I started to get moody and weird, cooking and cleaning in our little German apartment.
So returning to Kansas, I felt like the frenzy of the past few weeks finally melted into this beautiful pocket of suburbia that I’d been raised in. I had space! A pantry! A car (and a father to drive it - I hate driving)!
A beautiful stillness here. A respite. The other morning my father and I were sitting in the living room, tree lit up, listening to Scriabin and reading, he the Elon Musk bio, I, A Spy in the House of Love by Anais Nin. Scarily relatable book about feminine desire. Feminine fear. A desire for some insatiable feminine sustenance.
In book club the other day, we discussed the book. Getting off on dissociating and experiencing yourself through another. Projecting personal desires onto another under the guise of attraction. My nose started to bleed for the second time this month at the end of this discussion. I saw the blood pooling onto my shirt in the little window of our digital meeting.
I’ve mentioned this projection with a few musicians I’ve dated. And when I thought I’d finally gotten over it and began to take steps to reconnect with music myself, I’d thought one of them would teach me how to play guitar. And I’d asked. They always offered and never followed through. They wanted to cut the tension with a kiss or a phrase that interrupted the innocence with which I saw myelf and replaced it with the way they saw me. If they didn’t feel that tension, if I didn’t hold up my end of the will they won’t they bit, then they grew cold. So I’ve been teaching myself. Borrowed my neighbor’s so I didn’t have to sacrifice mine to the rough hands of an airline.
My neighbors welcomed me into their home. Showed me song after song, playing along with me. Invited me back to see their band practice later in the week. And I’ve spent my respite here alternating between reading and strumming with my family’s chatter filling the space in between.
So when our doorbell rang and my father answered it, expecting a last-minute Christmas package, and it was Mr. Verdi with a bouquet and his delicate grin, I don’t know if I was pleased. We’d increased the frequency of our dates enough for it to be classified as a grand gesture riding the momentum of a dramatic Manhattan goodbye… but still…
I’d told him once how much I loved surprises, and how in my earlier relationship, I’d have to plead for so much as a spontaneous candy bar. But I’m always surprised when someone remembers something that I’ve said. A little scared too, like someone is experiencing a version of myself I no longer have access to.
Of course my parents were confused. No one does stuff like that, not anymore at least. But after brief introductions and a firm handshake, my dad’s confusion melted into midwestern charm. He’s nice like that. I used to have to bring anyone home to meet my parents before a first date. I remember this French exchange student who sat on our couch as my father asked him if he believed in Jesus. He said yes. A month later, on the way to my homecoming dance, he said “I have something to tell you.” He was an atheist. How very French.
My Mother was hesitant. She’s slow to warm up, and even once she’s warm, it comes out in tender moments and glances. I know where her mind went. 1)who is this? 2)do I need to make up a room for him (no shared bedrooms in this house! God! is! watching!).
Verdi lingered around the house the next few days as I worked (day job😋). He took a couple calls. Answered emails. Talked to my father about God. And as he sat and hovered, I retreated inward, drowning in a flood of my own thoughts. I felt suffocated having him in my childhood home. In my childhood bedroom. With my family. We all went to dinner. He picked up the check sneakily, like a gentleman.
The morning of Christmas Eve we went to church. The sermon was about the state of the world and the birth of the child. And he kept trying to whisper in my ear. Little comments about the congregation. I wanted to tell him to shut up, that I was trying to save my soul here. Because being back in a Kansas church brought out a shame and a fear I hadn’t felt in so long. “We are in a cave,” the pastor said. “It is dark - we are in a cave.” Why are we so hell-bent on scaring people into loving a God. Why can’t we try to save the world with what we have now so that he has better clay to work with. Take steps toward the entrance while we still know how to try.
I have a hard time with church sermons because I can’t just listen. I listen and analyze all at once, as if I can solve it all right there in the pew. I think Vonnegut calls this the “existential hum.” That feeling of observing your thoughts as you think and not being able to stop. This other piece I found compares the hum to Edward Hopper paintings. The fuzzinesss and emptiness of it all when you look too close. The absurdity of our need to keep playing pretend. The need to keep the shadows going. Vonnegut says that the one time he did heroin, the hum went away.
Is there a difference between the existential hum and excessive consciousness? The act of experiencing while thinking about the experience before and after and during. Nin’s character Sabine falls into this category without a doubt, analyzing love affairs like a game, projecting onto the moon and the ocean and Stravinsky’s Firebird. I was in The Firebird a few times as a little girl. One of the little princesses, watching as the prince captured Firebird so that she could save him from the evil witch in the final act.
And Mr. Verdi was whispering into my ear like he had the feather that could call me anytime he wanted. But instead of my flying to him, he could always come find me, buying last-minute ticket here and there, cost no limitation. He was holding me captive, commandeering my metamorphosis. Interrupting my existential hum. I looked at the happy couples in the pews. The beautiful man next to me and my parents on the other side of him. I wanted to want this. I felt evil for not wanting this.
I feel evil when I think about people I have cleanly broken it off with who have responded with kindness. Worst when I think about those who I thought were kind who ghosted me. The French kid was the first person I ever ghosted. Not the last. So maybe each successive prick, each burn is karma. A soul for a soul, leaving bits and pieces on a loose end. And it is when I wallow in this pool of self-disgust, a tarnished record of behavior, desires, lulls and lapses, things I can never go back and redo, events, phrases that will forever be remembered by others in ways I’ll never know, that I want to be made whole and good and new by someone else.
But someone else cannot do that for you.
You cannot be saved by someone who will pretend to want something honest and traditional until some repressed urge makes them grow cold or act outside of the lines. You will not be saved by being a wife, by being born again, or birthing, and being sewn up. You are more than that. You are a full person.
I want my own origin story, my own dialogue with whatever it is that won’t stop humming.
When we got home, we sat on the porch and I told him how nice it was to have him here for a few days. How much my parents love him. And he knew not to ask the questions — exclusivity, title, etc, because I think we both knew the answer. For now.
To counter my guilt for not settling down, I think about Napoleon Bonaparte’s Sister (if she was awful, please don’t tell me) and the little bit I’ve read about her. Refused to settle down until one man went out of his way consistently. Had his own perfectly good tooth pulled from his mouth to help her get over the fear of a rotten one being taken out of hers. Rode across countries for her again and again. Grand gestures. Consistent grand gestures.
So maybe there will be another. And maybe another. I am a fervent person. I don’t need someone to move a mountain. I just want them to be willing to try.
Off Verdi went, in an Uber (much sparser out here), then to the airport, then across the country because his family prefers to spend Christmas day somewhere warm.
After waving him off, I got my neighbor’s guitar and headed over to their house. Found myself in my neighbor’s basement playing Tequila Sunrise with three men with stories about grandkids and war planes and earlier lives. And there was no tension to hold here. Nothing to be afraid of, no line to be crossed. Because to them, I was the girl next door in the literal sense, and they just wanted to share a little music with me, without asking for anything in return.
xx