"Not my type"
December 26. The hour is that indeterminate stretch between twilight and total darkness, when the light in the room acquires the color of old amber, and the shadows on the corners begin to breathe to the rhythm of my own thoughts. Today someone closes a door that I didn't even know I'd leaned in hope. The words were uttered with that polite, almost surgical precision that leaves no room for hemorrhage but causes a deep, thumping dull pain: "I will never fall in love with you, you're not my type." When you hear this, the first thing that leaves you is not the belief in the other, but the sense of your own wholeness. In the space of psychoanalytic experience, this "type" that is spoken of is actually a complex amalgam of unconscious projections, children's deficits and archetypal shadows that the other carries within it. When someone tells me I'm not his type, they actually say, "You don't fit my inner myth. Your face does not coincide wi...
