I think we’ve said the most hurtful things we could muster tonight, and yet, I still love the fuck out of her. I do all I can to make us okay; obviously, our relationship is terribly important to me. I know it is to her. How easily we belittle one another. Consider this: we would not be in this fight right now if one had been injured in Boston, if the other’s legs were gone, if she could no longer walk, talk, think…petty fight. It’s time to take up the other’s shoes, walk in them and create a better existence from the experience. Not to perpetually wait for that other shoe to drop. At some point, one must accept that the lines in the pavement are straight. And necessary.
March is in and out like a moldy loaf of bread which I toast because I have to eat it, moldy or no, and somehow I find a glorious sliver of two-year-old butter in the fridge under the command of a gnawing gut. Thank god March is out, but I still need a job, and a mother who is not worrisome to the point of belittlesome. I need the world to not judge me so hard on success and its meaning and how to obtain it. I need to be happy for a day-a few would be nice-and not wither beneath the bitter, disappointed heads of moms and dads and sisters and coworkers who have no idea what goes on in this baby raisin I call my brain. I can’t be but what I am; please, please understand. Your subjective idea of happiness may not necessarily be my subject view of happiness. But, these happiness(es) can coincide. I want to love with uncondition, and I am asking you to try, as best you can, to do the same.
My head’s been reeling lately, but I don’t know how to put it down. Seems like this life I’m living is just writing material. That small flicker-the only way I know to describe it-of creativity wants to spark into flame. I seek oxygen, head clearing particles, enablers. This dull shadow winds from the back of my brain into my consciousness until it can no longer be ignored. Perhaps this spark contains the only part of my life I cannot ignore. This part pulls me toward it; I become a mere flutter toward the flame of my creativity, my obnoxious self-absorbed, self-aggrandizement. And, how I hate adjectives usurped by nouns with the use of “ment”. I meant to sound educated, and I only end up tooting my own horn, sounding as pompous as an airbag filled with flour. Lord help me burn out as bright as I’d hoped.
bluest in our garden
She says I created a new painting today, and he ignores her; he types feverishly at the Mac. She resorts to her outdated Samsung, her best friend.
She looks at the computer below her lashes. She does this when she’s serious, when she knows she has nothing much to lose and not a lot to gain.
Later, when she’s just blurry enough, she piddles along in Word, phrasing, paraphrasing, diluting, revamping, exploring, typing these words now in recognition of typing. She listens to her favorite band in the moment-Bon Iver-and its particular sway, the lilt of a voice perhaps, a misplaced dabbling of banjo.
She thinks of the man she let go tonight. The man she barely knew but to whom she felt a connection as strong as an electric magnet utilized for a 5th grade experiment. His name contained one syllable, conveniently deceiving as his personality. His abs stood firm as his simple words in meaty, heart-dripping texts blazoned on phone bills that he paid for to be courteous.
To love best is to let go, right? Right? The color of their eyes match in the light of his bedroom just after the sun rises. Blue slides more into gray as they wrench from sleep with a dread of leaving. This dread remains pervasive. Why should they be so selfish?
How will they learn to let go benignly?
She sits behind her screen; she wonders about the neighbor across the way with his giant canvases and dark sunglasses, chopped in slivers by the blinds. These days she can only muster listlessness, and the aging furniture only offers the certainty of dust motes floating on an unseen current, across the backs of ghosts. The past year has given her the hope of letting go. She knows the best talent learned through living, especially the rough kind of living, is to ignore overwhelming nihilism and move toward a sincerity in being. Sugar coated Carpe Diem. In the words of Donald Hall, “To get old is to lose everything.” To enjoy losing everything is perfection. Obviously, this was my first day of yoga, and it was surprisingly good.
Things are never as magnificent as they seem. The best people in the world are filled with too many holes to be complete. I’m no exception, but at least I’m aware. Take this life and live it like it’s your only one. Take this love and shove it.