My free-will astrology horoscope says I should ask a lot of questions this week.
Question #1:
Why did I let Bob talk me into deleting all the music off my laptop, in an effort to prolong its life? Erasure...erasure I miss you!
Question #2:
How could I have overlooked the cure for so long? I've been losing my mind for two years now, and I just dabbled in the auditory wonder that is robert smith. As of the concert last monday, I've simply given up any sense of decency, and tumbled headlong into a mad orgy of cure albums. Lucky for me, bob has been decadently dimples deep in cure albums since forever, so I have plenty of choices. I delve into album after album, era after era, tube after tube of blisteringly red lipstick, and I just can't get enough. Currently, the album Wish, is completing my life.
Question #3:
Ever have one of those moments, a perfect one, and have an odd thought strike you? Okay, that was vague...
I was sitting on a bench in the common today, drinking a gigantic stein of peach iced tea, reading Neverwhere, and enjoying the breeze and the sunshine. A little ways off a group of children were throwing themselves into soccer practice, a man in a black business suit was dragged by his tethered dog through the foreground and high school kids lounged around the gazebo. Sitting there alone, it suddenly popped into my head that someday, forty years from now, I will probably be doing the exact same thing. I will be musing about lost opportunities, grieving losses, thumbing through memories, tripping over people I haven't thought about in years, and then yanked back to the present moment by something very small, a tickle of hair on my ear, a distant giggle, the smell of a flower, sudden strong and beautiful.
What will I think then? I wonder, in that identical perfect moment, forty years from now. How lonely will that bench be really?
Question #4 Speaking of lonely, How long will it be before Bob and I have a day to spend together again?
Almost two weeks.
NOT IMPRESSED.
Our schedules are flagrantly incongruent, and so i must content myself with brief tickle fights in the morning, slow descents into sleep in the crook of his arm while movies natter through the night, notes on phones, dishes left behind, a fucked up razer in the bathtub...I'm living with the ghost of my fiancee half the time it seems. Or maybe I'm just haunting him.
That's it for now...plenty of questions left I'm sure...
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Still here
Okay, sure.
You write a bunch of journal entries about how you hate everything, and it all starts clawing up out of the tar like a big hairy tarantula with thousands after thousands of legs, and it begins putting sticky blackness in your nose and mouth and eyes, and soon you just spew it all out, back and forth, but it keeps coming like the tide filling holes in the sand.
Then something happens.
Something small and insignificant makes you start thinking about the good things, how they used to feel, how the breath in your lungs was once sweet and light and beautiful, and then you start writing about how maybe you can't see it and feel it but you can at least remember what a mouth empty of poison felt like, a mouth that shaped words and sang music and screamed with laughter.
It begins to write itself, and you can press your eyelids up a little further than you could the day before, and suddenly slits of light begin appearing between the blackness, and you start shaping things out of those bars of light, you start pestering yourself to push the skin further apart and let your eyeballs breathe a little deeper, and then one day the universe hurls a chance at you, and maybe you'd given up and thought this was it and nothing would ever come for you, no rope would ever tumble from the clouds, but it does, and you grab it, and it's terrifying, and the rope burns your hands and runs hard and scratches your legs, and you cling to it anyway, and then suddenly spiders are peeling off you like layers of your own filthy skin, and fuck it's blinding, the pain of so much light is unbearable, what is the smell of something coming back to life, and nothing pressing hard against your eyes makes you frightened to pry them apart from your cheeks, but the lashes come unstuck, and breathing gets thinner, easier, more liquid, and you open everything all at once, eyes lips lungs nostrils fingers legs ears and everything is more beautiful than you ever remembered or imagined or dreamed, and you wonder how you ever lived in that half existence, how you ever managed to hang on, but this is real now, this is life, this is hope, and it's all still here, and so are you.
So are you.
You write a bunch of journal entries about how you hate everything, and it all starts clawing up out of the tar like a big hairy tarantula with thousands after thousands of legs, and it begins putting sticky blackness in your nose and mouth and eyes, and soon you just spew it all out, back and forth, but it keeps coming like the tide filling holes in the sand.
Then something happens.
Something small and insignificant makes you start thinking about the good things, how they used to feel, how the breath in your lungs was once sweet and light and beautiful, and then you start writing about how maybe you can't see it and feel it but you can at least remember what a mouth empty of poison felt like, a mouth that shaped words and sang music and screamed with laughter.
It begins to write itself, and you can press your eyelids up a little further than you could the day before, and suddenly slits of light begin appearing between the blackness, and you start shaping things out of those bars of light, you start pestering yourself to push the skin further apart and let your eyeballs breathe a little deeper, and then one day the universe hurls a chance at you, and maybe you'd given up and thought this was it and nothing would ever come for you, no rope would ever tumble from the clouds, but it does, and you grab it, and it's terrifying, and the rope burns your hands and runs hard and scratches your legs, and you cling to it anyway, and then suddenly spiders are peeling off you like layers of your own filthy skin, and fuck it's blinding, the pain of so much light is unbearable, what is the smell of something coming back to life, and nothing pressing hard against your eyes makes you frightened to pry them apart from your cheeks, but the lashes come unstuck, and breathing gets thinner, easier, more liquid, and you open everything all at once, eyes lips lungs nostrils fingers legs ears and everything is more beautiful than you ever remembered or imagined or dreamed, and you wonder how you ever lived in that half existence, how you ever managed to hang on, but this is real now, this is life, this is hope, and it's all still here, and so are you.
So are you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
