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Two weeks from tomorrow, I move back to Dallas, and to the apartment I share with Ciro. I am thrilled. Although I have dear friends here, and do good work, it sometimes feels as though I have been on pause for five of the last six months.
For the past two years, something I've heard a lot is "Oh, I couldn't do a long distance relationship." It always strikes me as silly to the point of meaninglessness. It's not as though Ciro and I thought wouldn't it be great to love someone on a different continent?. Similarly, we did not say "I will love you forever, provided you spend that forever in the same room as me." I look at him and think out of every man and woman in the world, this is the one for me. He looks at me and thinks this is the best woman possible. We both say "let us have children, and let us make films, which are also children."
I am not interested in having another person's children. I am not interested in making films with another collaborator, for another audience. When we got together, we knew it was possible I'd wind up in London and he'd wind up in Dallas. We knew my going would advance us both professionally and artistically. We knew his coming might be stymied. I guess we could have said "I love you, but instead of committing to you, I'm going to be with people I love less instead, and maybe some day we will magically run into each other again at a time which is perfectly convenient." We are both adults; we know who we are and what we want. We make hard decisions in order to be true to ourselves, and we compromise in the short term to satisfy our long-term goals.
We did what we had to do. I made connections here, which will be in place when we return to Europe a few years down the line. Meanwhile, he made connections in Dallas and set me up with various producer organizations and festivals so that I can further advance our agendas when I return to Texas. We e-mail; we chat; we teleconference. He found an apartment big enough for both of us, and keeps me updated on the tricks he uses to keep utility costs down; I research health insurance plans and make transportation arrangements. He's started to stockpile foods I like so that he will have lunch ready for me even on days when he is at work and I am at home. He's put calendars online so I know where he'll be months in advance; he's scheduled outings and events he knows I will want to attend. We talk about money - bills and budgeting, how and who will make what.
Anymore, I don't get "I couldn't do long distance." Now I get "are you having problems? Are you going to have a big fight when you get back?" It's baffling. The answer is no: we're doing great. We're thrilled. We're constantly full of joy. We are absolutely ready to live together again. It will be a great relief. We will finally be able to operate with appropriate backup, and to put into practice economies of scale. There will be adjustments, as there are at any new stage of a relationship. There will be adjustments next time we move, or change jobs, or have children, or begin to care for elderly relatives. But it's not hard - it's easy. We like each other. We want to have each other around. We are not stupid, and we are not strangers.
Maybe people* are waiting for me to reveal that this has all been a ruse and we broke up ages ago? That he's blackmailing me? That I've thought better of things but am embarrassed to admit it? I suppose it could be coincidence that every single piece of art I've made for two years has been a love letter, that he found an apartment covered with fleur de lis, and that my credits these days read "Faienza."
* None of these people are my relatives, all of whom are highly celebratory. Uncle Rex calls Ciro even when I'm in England. REL sends me music videos to send him. Whenever I skype Dad, he says he can tell when I get an e-mail from Ciro because he says my whole face lights up. Mom's wallet still has an Italian embassy sticker on it as a sign of solidarity. Ciro's relatives (in which I include Ed and Stan) are similarly "hooray hooray you make him so happy." Our friend Stephanie said in April that Ciro looks at me like I'm the only oxygen in the room. Somehow, with my friends, I must not be communicating my own excitement well enough, perhaps because I think it must be obvious, and that to belabor the point would seem like bragging or overcompensation. Whereas with my family I am used to saying "look, this is how it's going to be, and I expect you to fall in line."
For the past two years, something I've heard a lot is "Oh, I couldn't do a long distance relationship." It always strikes me as silly to the point of meaninglessness. It's not as though Ciro and I thought wouldn't it be great to love someone on a different continent?. Similarly, we did not say "I will love you forever, provided you spend that forever in the same room as me." I look at him and think out of every man and woman in the world, this is the one for me. He looks at me and thinks this is the best woman possible. We both say "let us have children, and let us make films, which are also children."
I am not interested in having another person's children. I am not interested in making films with another collaborator, for another audience. When we got together, we knew it was possible I'd wind up in London and he'd wind up in Dallas. We knew my going would advance us both professionally and artistically. We knew his coming might be stymied. I guess we could have said "I love you, but instead of committing to you, I'm going to be with people I love less instead, and maybe some day we will magically run into each other again at a time which is perfectly convenient." We are both adults; we know who we are and what we want. We make hard decisions in order to be true to ourselves, and we compromise in the short term to satisfy our long-term goals.
We did what we had to do. I made connections here, which will be in place when we return to Europe a few years down the line. Meanwhile, he made connections in Dallas and set me up with various producer organizations and festivals so that I can further advance our agendas when I return to Texas. We e-mail; we chat; we teleconference. He found an apartment big enough for both of us, and keeps me updated on the tricks he uses to keep utility costs down; I research health insurance plans and make transportation arrangements. He's started to stockpile foods I like so that he will have lunch ready for me even on days when he is at work and I am at home. He's put calendars online so I know where he'll be months in advance; he's scheduled outings and events he knows I will want to attend. We talk about money - bills and budgeting, how and who will make what.
Anymore, I don't get "I couldn't do long distance." Now I get "are you having problems? Are you going to have a big fight when you get back?" It's baffling. The answer is no: we're doing great. We're thrilled. We're constantly full of joy. We are absolutely ready to live together again. It will be a great relief. We will finally be able to operate with appropriate backup, and to put into practice economies of scale. There will be adjustments, as there are at any new stage of a relationship. There will be adjustments next time we move, or change jobs, or have children, or begin to care for elderly relatives. But it's not hard - it's easy. We like each other. We want to have each other around. We are not stupid, and we are not strangers.
Maybe people* are waiting for me to reveal that this has all been a ruse and we broke up ages ago? That he's blackmailing me? That I've thought better of things but am embarrassed to admit it? I suppose it could be coincidence that every single piece of art I've made for two years has been a love letter, that he found an apartment covered with fleur de lis, and that my credits these days read "Faienza."
* None of these people are my relatives, all of whom are highly celebratory. Uncle Rex calls Ciro even when I'm in England. REL sends me music videos to send him. Whenever I skype Dad, he says he can tell when I get an e-mail from Ciro because he says my whole face lights up. Mom's wallet still has an Italian embassy sticker on it as a sign of solidarity. Ciro's relatives (in which I include Ed and Stan) are similarly "hooray hooray you make him so happy." Our friend Stephanie said in April that Ciro looks at me like I'm the only oxygen in the room. Somehow, with my friends, I must not be communicating my own excitement well enough, perhaps because I think it must be obvious, and that to belabor the point would seem like bragging or overcompensation. Whereas with my family I am used to saying "look, this is how it's going to be, and I expect you to fall in line."
