|
I don't know, I'm in the mood for some first person today.
This desk I'm writing on that I put together is now wobbly and wiggly, and I don't know how to fix it. My tomato plants outside bring me such joy, yet I am prepared that I may get no yield.
The weather? it was cooler breezy and the perfect day for Rorschach-guessing clouds.
oh pshaw. the only real thing I ever care about is my own angst.
All of this "meeting me" has gone from just theoretical to flesh. The other day, I was walking down the street thinking how much better it was when I was totally anonymous and a mystery.
In other words, it's been a numb year with some really sad low lights. The hardest part of course was the first part - the beginning. People never seem to account for the millions of synapses that have to align for a push of a virtual button. It's like with being a therapist. In the entire world would I be a minister who doesn't believe in god - to me, that equates with therapy. Could I be that safe spot - that well. Not in the months past. I remember asking Kent what his pacing spots were and having him look at me - and I realized that was odd to have pacing spots, but it had been a coping mechanism of mine. So, crawling out of the boring mine with penile ....again?
Who am I?
Who do I want to pretend to be?
Why can't they be the same?
And again, jobs are great and careers and life missions rock, yet for me, my addiction is you - the other. I've wanted to talk to you with no words since I conceptualized. I'm always telling them I'm smart, and it's because I think unless I tell them, there's no way someone could know from this mess I present... "but wait, toss aside that crumpled yarn, that stained bodice, the seaweed in my hair, and voila!" In fact, it reminded me of when I dated Andrew and that trap I got myself into - the trap of them falling in love with your defense mechanism persona... as if they even fall in love.
and my new hobby that I need to get so I don't lull myself into the trap of giving a shit about romantic relationships will be... writing writhing songs about them.
Look, it's better than it was.
not perfect.
but better.
and I'll fookin take it.
(and the pills)
And I'm not sure if you've ever done it, but singing "boys of summer" by don henley - why it can make you weep. God knows I'm a feeler, and mostly I go to wistful nostalgia of lost worlds never to be recovered and shitty present circumstances to be endured.
That could just be some life lie I've told myself. It could be true. I could be a cinderella that never lost her shoe, yet one way or another - I suppose I'm here.
Although it does feel like death more and more lately - is that what being old is? I think things like "what do I want really"?
always the same thing.
always:
I want to dance with you. I want to write songs for you. I want to play. I want to make merry... then I want to retreat in my den with my lover and maybe just with myself but someone with whom I feel alone with.... so rare.
and I'm still thinking about the sad indication that I'm just using this dude for the adulation. the fucking usual. I should be a grown-up and go "have you ever been friend-zoned?", but I'm too built into being the sought after fantasy chick for now.... I'll soon have to though - it was really sad that I got pissed that the dungeons and dragons game got cancelled again. It reminded me of Andrew - "oh shit, now I'll have to entertain you because you don't know the first thing about being with yourself...."
It was weird how professors were in vogue.
"so, I don't know a thing about your field or whatever. I can't tell if you're smart, but I'm assuming you are or you couldn't have gotten this far."
"oh, I'm one of the top experts in my field."
"again, whatever that is..."
and I saw a red-headed woodpecker the other day. It always reminds me of the hoopa Indians who collected that red....
|
