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and the chair just squeaks now.
luckily, I've got some WD-40 on hand. I historically detest a squeak.
I used your root word in Wordle today. fuck it. I won't lie about my desire to connect with any part of you I can.
the table squeaks too. I put it together haphazardly - even though I knew that it's rare to get a do-over. you usually live with what you constructed originally.
so fookin' deep missy.
matron.
you haven't bled in a long time.
it's better than bleeding every day.
but wow.
could it be?
this is it?
crone phase
now.
and I've already mourned the babies I'll never have a million times. I didn't think you could get preggers really after 49, so it's been a minute...and getting pregnant with Andrew's kid while in Paris - well that was a trip. and of course I would have kept it - I had promised after the second termination that I would never ever ever do this again (unless terrible deformities detected)
was that why I didn't want to have kids?
I always blame that moment with my mother - the one I hated her so much I didn't want that imposed on blah blah blah
but let's be rahl - another part of it is how could you know who you are - who I am - and how - what's the word here - what's the phrase that boils me all down into a defective un-reproducable mess that is worse than all the others who try?
maybe it's that I'm smart
too smart
too thinky
that's another one of my crutches.
yesterday, I shat myself reading about the layoffs in another healthcare company and knowing that I've had a marvelous ride. all the writing that I've done in my vast free time - all the tomes I've given to my masses.
kids of a different nature?
safer kids?
maybe I have always been writing to my kids. it would seem that the only human that might really be interested in my brain might be the human I gestated.
who knows. I could think about it a lot more. maybe that would help someone. because that's all this writing is - a benevolent arm to wrap or throttle or push - it's not selfish at all. it's not a whine into the ether at all.
it's not please god please robot please humanity
make some part of what I am matter. make it ok that I stay inside
that so much of my life has been staying inside and waiting.
when I was younger, I used to call it asking the director (god silly) "what's my motivation." then dinosaur, jr's. "how can you move without a goal."
translated into
make me love this life
show me something that
delights me
show me a hand. show me
and I've had so many people love me
it's revolting.
maybe it's all been through plexiglass. maybe, but if there are exceptions, then there you have it.
I'm haunted by the exceptions of course.
that's why noel mattered to me so much. it was like "oh shit. I thought people like this were done for me. well hell-fucking-lo dude. nice to see you. let's roll!"
and here I sit
fucking seven months past the dumping - re-excavating the fucking month of July - all the time - "this time last year...."
it cuts like a knife.
and I keep being haunted by that shroom trip at my brothers - the one where it was all "death death and disappointment and confusion and tunnel vision and ...oh you're not here - it would be nicer if you were."
and that feeling that I'd missed it all.
I'd not let myself connect really to anyone. I'd never had children. I'd never made worshippers. I'd fucked up.
even in the shroom trip, I was picturing myself as some pitiful maiden old doddery great aunt - being charity cared for...
it's a fucking nightmare.
and last night, my dreams were about how if I just reordered the platonic shapes of my words, how voila. and then I realized, oh, I have everything I need - I can just reshape it.
and god
is this the hat I hang my entire fucking worth on
some typed words for ten minutes every day that I have nothing else to vent to - no one else to hear.
and then I die
and 'it's full of stars Dave"
but what about this life.
I'd like to have played with you more. I just hated that you kept looking out the door - through the window - for other squirrels to chase. it annoyed me. it ruined the spell for me: if seeing me and encountering me, you like me less and less instead of more and more
fuck
me
fucked
and getting into the Paris review.
not with this piece buddy.
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