remembrance of things past
Last night, I was cleaning out a drawer in my file cabinet and stumbled across a manila folder stuffed full of what amounts to memorabilia from my so-called marriage. It was all meant to go into a "wedding scrapbook" -- which CB thought was ridiculous and which I, actually, thought was kind of sweet. Though, for her, I pretended it was a joke, but insisted I was going to make one. Obviously, I never got around to it because the envelope was still full of our marital artifacts and stuffed into the back of a file cabinet drawer.
Among the receipts and pamphlets and extra post-cards, etc from our honeymoon, plus god knows what other stuff, I didn't really look at it, I found the piece de resistance -- the actual marriage certificate. My marriage certificate with my name and signature. What a fucking weird document, almost as weird as my "Junior National Rifle Association" membership card, which I've had since I was 9. (I'm hoping my membership to the NRA has expired like my marriage.)
I didn't do anything special when I found this envelope, just flipped through it for the marriage certificate and stared at it in disbelief for a moment. Then I stuck it back in the envelope and shoved it all back in the drawer. Last night I dreamed that CB and I were on the mountain where my stepmother's family lives (lots of associations with that place -- stifling misery chief among them) -- and we were house-hunting. We were looking at houses we'd already looked at and noting that the houses had been improved upon slightly, readied for sale. Fresh coats of paint in snappy new colors had been applied. I felt curious about the improvements but the dream was pervaded by a feeling of sinking unhappiness buried under false optimism.
This morning I got up and drove my car down MLK to have an oil change and some minor work done. I walked back up Grand waiting for a bus and suddenly realized I was walking past the Multnomah Building -- the exact location of my "wedding" almost exactly two years ago. March 3rd (I think) 2004, after the City Council took marriage hostage and allowed queers to get certificates, CB and I hopped in that line that snaked all the way around the Multnomah Building and waited with hundreds of other couples in the cold rain to do something monumental, historic, foolish.
After our long, cold wait, after we'd made it inside the building, filled out the forms (my name went on the "wife" line, she got to be the "husband" of course, and we were warned by big dykes volunteering from BRO not to scratch out "husband" or it would void the form) and paid our money, we walked back out into the cold and found an officiant, some ministerial type guy from California, who performed the incredibly informal service. The only words he uttered that even resembled what I've come to associate with marriage were "I now pronounce you married." And that was that. We had witnesses, strangers from the line, who signed the paper. Then we left.
And we went straight to the bar! Surprise, surprise.
Among the receipts and pamphlets and extra post-cards, etc from our honeymoon, plus god knows what other stuff, I didn't really look at it, I found the piece de resistance -- the actual marriage certificate. My marriage certificate with my name and signature. What a fucking weird document, almost as weird as my "Junior National Rifle Association" membership card, which I've had since I was 9. (I'm hoping my membership to the NRA has expired like my marriage.)
I didn't do anything special when I found this envelope, just flipped through it for the marriage certificate and stared at it in disbelief for a moment. Then I stuck it back in the envelope and shoved it all back in the drawer. Last night I dreamed that CB and I were on the mountain where my stepmother's family lives (lots of associations with that place -- stifling misery chief among them) -- and we were house-hunting. We were looking at houses we'd already looked at and noting that the houses had been improved upon slightly, readied for sale. Fresh coats of paint in snappy new colors had been applied. I felt curious about the improvements but the dream was pervaded by a feeling of sinking unhappiness buried under false optimism.
This morning I got up and drove my car down MLK to have an oil change and some minor work done. I walked back up Grand waiting for a bus and suddenly realized I was walking past the Multnomah Building -- the exact location of my "wedding" almost exactly two years ago. March 3rd (I think) 2004, after the City Council took marriage hostage and allowed queers to get certificates, CB and I hopped in that line that snaked all the way around the Multnomah Building and waited with hundreds of other couples in the cold rain to do something monumental, historic, foolish.
After our long, cold wait, after we'd made it inside the building, filled out the forms (my name went on the "wife" line, she got to be the "husband" of course, and we were warned by big dykes volunteering from BRO not to scratch out "husband" or it would void the form) and paid our money, we walked back out into the cold and found an officiant, some ministerial type guy from California, who performed the incredibly informal service. The only words he uttered that even resembled what I've come to associate with marriage were "I now pronounce you married." And that was that. We had witnesses, strangers from the line, who signed the paper. Then we left.
And we went straight to the bar! Surprise, surprise.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 11:18 AM
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