My friend Stephanie likes to host a Polidori party now and again. Here’s how she explains it:
Polidori history: A few clever college students at the University of Dallas in the early 90′s decided to host something called “Polidori’s Pumpkin Party,” named for John Polidori in honor of the 1816 gathering of writers at the Villa Diodati on Lake Geneva. Attendees at that party, and at the Polidori parties held thereafter, shared original, creative works with the other guests.
This time the theme was “decay” and there were some GREAT pieces. Mine’s a little rugged, since I wrote it using the rules of NaNoWriMo, which is occupying my life right now. Those rules forbid editing, so I pretty much just dished out something from the gut/heart.
Stephi says she wants the next theme to be Love Stories. I’ll be down with that.
My decay expository expulsion for Stephi’s party is below.
The process of decay. Brought to you by life.
Funny that, what with decay being the stuff of death. Yet there be no death without life, so I suppose, yes, Decay, brought to you by life.
I do not know when the relationship died. And it seems to me that in this instance, decay preceded death. Decay led to death.
Wikipedia offers, “The process is essential for new growth and development of living organisms because it recycles the finite matter that occupies physical space in the biome.” Of course this is in regards to Decomposition … but I hold out hope that there is something about it that fits here. That the decay is not for naught.
It is like the zen koan about one door closes another opens. Which actually apparently is an Helen Keller quote that goes, “When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”
And so, decay. What was I saying about decay? That the relationship was decaying, and then it died. Yes, that’s it.
You know how it goes. Love at first sight, or first fuck or whatever the fuck ever. And you become twinned at the hip and everything is peachy. And everything that is not peachy is made into jam and spread on toast, so it may as well be peachy.
Love notes are written and strewn in sweet places. Little gifts are given. Meals are shared. Then she’s wearing his T-shirt to traipse from the bed to the shower and he’s adoring it.
Someone moves in with the other. A checking account is established. He adds her to his auto insurance policy and she adds him as the beneficiary of her IRA.
Maybe they go so far as to marry. (Maybe not.)
But decay invites itself in. Not so many love notes. He doesn’t like the way she does dishes. She stinks up his T-shirts. He pees on the floor.
They have a few “we must talk” talks now and again, and things improve. He brings her a potted plant for their garden.
They talk about getting a place in the desert. A dog someday.
But they start watching television in bed, every night. And she goes days between shaving her legs. Even days between bathing at all.
There are a few times he doesn’t answer his phone when it rings, and then he goes outside to place a call. There are more and more times that she comes to bed late.
A few more “we must talk” talks, but more times when he thinks, “Why bother” and she thinks, “I’m too tired for this right now.”
One day, what talks they do have are all about who will keep the new mattress and does she want to keep that painting they bought. And one of them places a personals advertisement.
Photo by tanakawho and used with Creative Commons license.
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