Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Dillweed

July 19, 2009 at 4:12 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

I think it’s a little clear to me.

Oh, there’s nothing like reality for making time change speeds.  For making a body suddenly cold on the warmest day of the season, for making a body burn like it runs on napalm beneath the ministrations and oscillations of the most reliable of fans.

I don’t feel much like talking again.  But I have this time and I don’t want to waste it.  I waste so much. I should be scrubbing the bathtub.  Work.  I believe in work. I should be throwing things away instead of screaming my stupid head off at my keyboard skipping every other damn word.

A stupid head.  That’s what I have.

I thought I was doing pretty good about laying shit out here, even shit that I was fairly uncomfortable about.  Notwithstanding the fact that saying anything about myself that is true is rather discomfiting to me, I was trying.  But today, the old embarrassment squick rises up again.  I want to come off so much better than this.

And my sitting there numbly while our lovely nice guy was lovely and funny and shirtless and flirting with everyone in sight including the girl he’s apparently dating, the cute girl in costume handing out pamphlets, the 72 year old volunteer woman, the middle aged party moms and needless to say, said nary a word to me doesn’t make me look like much more than chopped liver.  I was very, very numb as a result.  I didn’t eat, or talk much, just put my head in my book and I know what you’re saying because I was hearing it in my head about friendship and being whatever and not giving a shit about things and just being with people like the palm reader advised, but I just couldn’t.

I was really incapable of not minding.  But, I did was any sangfroid type of girl does in these situations.  I introduced myself to this new girl.  The new cute girl who was invited to ride the tractor specifically because she was a cute girl –  a situation which perhaps invites more questions than I care to answer – something which no one has ever requested I do.   I smiled and turned around and shook her hand.  All the while feeling like a complete imbecile with these tumultuous emotions of being irritated by his exact unrightness for me and his randomly asinine behavior being thrown in my face right after the gut punch of suddenly wanting him wildly and followed by the brick wall of it was never going to happen anyway.

It becomes insanely petty and silly when you write it down, though….it doesn’t become petty or silly enough for me to let it go.  Not yet.

I felt like a heel.  Like Cinderella, pre-fairy godmother, invisible and meant to work.  Meant for work.  Completely de-sexualized with my got up an hour early face and my little summer outfit and my fake lashes and my positive attitude.  Like nobody would even look at me like that, I felt like a fucking eunuch.  Except of course, for Mr. Creepy and his compliments.  I would really rather not be spoken to at all if I was given the choice.

The Great Plan really didn’t go so great today.  I came home and judiciously ate a few bad things and then tried to plot a better course, something more helpful than redirecting my bruised ego into something physically negative.  I want to go to this fancy-dress party in September and make people faint clean away, I want to get to wear what I like and feel like I’m not…nothing.  I want to float in Cinderella, post extreme makeover, post all the calluses pumiced away, post the drudgery that kills one soul.  It’s a lot to fucking ask, I know, but it’s a goal.  It’s supposed to be lofty.  I want to be slender and still and glowing.  I want to be unforgettable.

Because maybe then I’ll be able to forget today.

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Lettuce

July 14, 2009 at 3:07 am (diary) (, , , , , , )

Let’s just dash across the page and say things as though we mean them.

Let’s just throw back our shoulders and say ENOUGH ALREADY.

Let’s just pretend there are options and the best of which is staying in bed together with the sheets made from bamboo that are so soft and cool against the skin and we’ll plan what we’ll do when we inevitably win the lottery and they’ll necessarily solve the world’s problems with a lasting and total world peace.

Let’s pretend that we are always able and willing and excited to eat our vegetables.

Let’s pretend that we remember the anniversaries when they need remembering and we don’t tear ourselves up when we forget the ones that didn’t matter anyway.

Let’s pretend we have the grace to carry over our mistakes and our failures without ripping up our own countryside in outrage.

Let’s pretend that even if we don’t know we can pretend we do know and find a stone on which to step.

Let’s pretend that the problems are simple and visceral and based on caveman instinct.  That chemical reactions are the way the great unknown plays out our destinies on the stages of our bony frames.  That a scientist could solve it if we would just lay on his table and let him begin an examination, an excavation.  We could be the trail of bodies that leads to a vaccination and no one will ever suffer so again.

Let’s pretend that nothing we says has any impact whatsoever and that accountability is for people who are running for things.

Let’s pretend that the things that make us feel better are things that will kill us if we touch them too much.  Let’s kill them with spears and fire and never want them again.

Let’s lay out a picnic on bearskin rugs and get a tan.

Let’s misplace our glasses and have to get in very close to see if we’re rolling our eyes at one another.

Let’s not try very hard and get away with everything anyway.

Let’s be twice as long and half as good.

Let’s miss one another all day long and let every minute apart drive us a mile further into madness until we wake up lost in a bedlam of love.

Let’s shake tambourines and run down every roaming troubadour we can find, shackle them to our radiators, teach someone tall to play bass, and start a band.

Let’s find this anxiety in our heads, the one that brings us near to nausea when we pull into the parking lot, the one that tells us that if you worked harder you could make it rain the money that was needed, that if you were willing and brighter you could double time, you could make it happen…let’s find that thing that is making you dizzy and overwhelmed and shape it into a paperweight.  A touchable, tangible thing.  Something that can be addressed. Let’s not fail to breathe.

Let’s just call the whole thing off.

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Adelaide

July 12, 2009 at 5:50 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , )

Oh, day of minor disappointments, how I wish to utterly forget you.

I did my part.  I was cute.  I had my painted nails.  I had my side ponytail.  I had my peasant top.  I was be-neckaced and all my stars were aligned.  Nothing.

Got nothing but a minor sunburn, a bag of sweet corn, and some sweaty, nigh on post-coital looking eye makeup to show for it.  Nobody worth any notice showed up.  I got a lot of looming creepy guys, but what else is new?  No monotone, no nice guys, no prospects.  This whole falling in love aspect of the Great Plan is apparently no easy checkmark.

I have nothing, I suppose, to do about it but resign myself to try again next week. Maybe if I just go and sit after 17 weeks some rock will be overturned and out will pop eligible bachelor hooray and hoorah.

If I sound cynical and irritable and heat-stroked, you are a winner.  Please collect your prize at the door.

Tomorrow doesn’t look good, either. Gotta just let it go.  I have a certain degree of nausea and my keyboard is on a slight delay so I think twice or five times as fast as I type.  Funny how bothersome that is.

I wish I had something better to say.   Can I blamen not getting in my full 500 words on my incredibly shitty keyboard?  Os tahat faire to…

Okay, refreshed the browser and we are back in business.  I wonder if this absence of vague description is bothering me, too.  I can wax poetic for miles, but we’re just talking facts of the day right now.  Seems like the truth is a big old drag.   Who wants to read about mediocrity and getting by and okayness, anyway?  Who wants to read about someone who has risks that are on this sub-level.  These risk-free risks that spur me on.

So I want to cheat and paste in an excerpt from my old way of blogging, my nothing said but my heart bled type of page.  I feel shitty about this but my hands hurt and I just am over it tonight.  I’m missing my heart being in it.  I’m missing not having to level with you about the fact that I’m not loved, not focused, not trying, not smart, not fixing the problem.  I’m not facing the page.  I’m running from it and its protective hand.  I apologize, but what better answer is there out there but the faking it and the making it? Give up and go home?

I might have let the brownies burn.  Hmm.

The hospice man died yesterday after I left early for the day.  And that, apparently, is that.  He is past-tense.  Like so much trouble and so much misfortune washed away by a good sleep.  Now starts the behavior of the griever, the decisions about what is acceptable for the family to do and how they can be.  The service won’t be for weeks, after he is cremated and his event, the event he lived for, somehow proceeds without him.

There’s that.

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Sugar Shock

July 11, 2009 at 5:04 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

Electric blue nails. A little bit gobby.  Watching Zombie Nightmare.  A smidge sick to my stomach.  Guess it’s time to talk about another aspect of the Great Plan.

It may involve two weeks of no nonsense health.  I think it needs a little strictness because I have been all over the fucking map.  I’ve also met caramel macchiato ice cream which is most regrettable indeed.  I feel, I hesitate to say it so plainly, but I need to get back on the old rickety wagon.  Water, walking, biking, not living in perpetual sugar shock and drifting in an out of this boy-crazy, exhausted, wounded dream state.  I’m sick of licking my wounds, frankly.  The Great Plan requires me to take a stock of this anyway, on the path to super-happy-foreverness, so now is as good a time as any.  I mean, sure we’re going to the Renaissance Faire on Sunday, where if you want to eat there’s cruddiness a’plenty.  It all sounds fairly like the precursor to a night of worship at the porcelain altar right now.  It’s smarter anyways to just drink a shitload of water (lovely image, there) and have some string cheese and whatever I can get in and try and do the best I can.  I’ve never been a giant turkey leg kind of girl, really.  It’s more the point to people-watch and swan around in a dress and be a part of the whole beloved silliness.  And of course, get my cards read.  Maybe I can ask about the Great Plan and see if this is the right track or if I need to get more militant about this shit.   I don’t want to pay 25 bucks to be told that everything’s fine.  It’s not.  However, I don’t want to pay 25 bucks and walk away feeling hopeless.  It’s a fine line they straddle.  I’ve had some shitty ones and some good ones, but I suppose it’s the desire for a disinterested party (aside from the whole me paying them for advice thing) tell me what’s wot.  I’ll report back on this.

The night is finally cooling down.  I’ve been making a giant mess today.  Spilling things and with the heat of the day, I’ve been so unmoved to care.

Got to leave work early and I had a little excursion, hence the electric -nay, “East Village” blue nails.  My sister’s down in the dumps and I can’t do anything about it.  I’m tired as fuck.  Along with all the other psychological rigamarole percolating in my genius brain. I also got a little sorta Daisy Mae peasant top and shorts and blue mary janes and false lashes and some of this sinful ice cream and I’ve promised myself that there will be no getting out of hand after today.  I’ll either be really cute tomorrow or terribly gaudy and tragic.  It’s a thin line and I straddle it every day.

I’ll also report on if the Farmers Market brings any excitement this week.  I’m doubting it.   I am hoping for a nice taste of some deadpan, wry and deft humor as opposed to the terrible and horrific and one-sided banter I’ve been exposed to lately.  I’m hoping for a few hours of monotone.

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Bread and Roses

July 10, 2009 at 6:01 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , , )

Strange day.  I feel kind of at ease in a way I didn’t yesterday, or maybe haven’t for a while now.  It feels like summer, it feels joyful.  It feels like how John Denver felt in Aspen.  Like there’s air in the lungs and all is worthy of our praise or at least our kindest set of eyes.  This includes ourselves.  And yet, that air and that praise is spurring me on and bringing me here to the page where I was sure I would be too exhausted to do anything of worth.  Maybe that’s true, but I’m here.

Oh, the beauty in the world.

I am wanting to go to the Shakespeare Festival this year.  I’ve said this for ages, but I am longing for it.  I am longing for the beautiful air and that outdoor stage and that wit so crisp and bright and like a dancing star.  I want to go with some nice guy, but there’s a serious shortage of those about these days so I’ll have to go with one of the usual knuckleheads.    I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream there as a child, as a guest of my father’s friends.  I felt so grownup and giddy with the atmosphere and the play.  It was a 50′s inspired version – Puck as the Fonz – this gorgeous sequence where a girl falls asleep to an old-fashioned radio on a porch swing opened the play and I was drunk on the tipple of it all.  It was memorable in every way.

We’re talking about going to the renaissance festival tomorrow.  This is traditional.  I’m going to wear my dress and get my palm read or my cards read and not worry too much about the rest.  I want certain experiences to be certain ways and when they’re not, I get kind of hatesy and bitchy and miserable and a few of these blog postings are reason enough for you to encourage me to stay mellow and just enjoy the cleavage and boys in tragically awkward leather harnesses traipsing across the faire grounds in 90 degree heat and mispronouncing privies.  PRY-VEES, you say, m’lord?
It may be said that this is where I got the amber for my magical, eh, not so much?, necklace.  Maybe it needs to go back home to be activated.  But it was Baltic amber and frankly, I don’t got the airfare, magick necklace so commence with the love powers or GTFO.

Really, I think tonight in my exhaustion (I hung around to make a minor fool of myself at the city council meeting, but what else is new?), I’m feeling fairly good-natured about my situation on the whole.

There’s all these parties to look forward to throughout the summer, too.  Galas, second proms, steampunk balls, picnics, barbecues, artist receptions.  One where I need a glittering gold dress, in fact.  It is a little bit exciting, isn’t it?  Even if you’re an invisible girl, it is quite a social calendar to maintain.  I’m focusing on the fact that I’ll be able to have whatever time I want to have at all of these things and I can dread them and hide or I can just go.

I can just go.

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Pop Can in the Freezer

July 7, 2009 at 4:09 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , )

Oh, oh, oh. 

This is the therapy I got.  This is what I can afford.  

I really wish I was two people.  Then maybe some of my hours would be free of dread.  Not such a hot day, really.  And I have to get up early tomorrow to finish what I couldn’t finish tonight.  I feel really exhausted and overwhelmed and when that’s the case, I make bad decisions.  I totally pulled out in front of oncoming traffic.  I told myself as I drove off all numbly, that this completely justified the ice cream I bought at the grocery store.  This is my near-miss life.  But sometimes, I hit dead on.

Maybe you don’t want to hear about that.  I don’t know what to say in response to that because this is the story I have and if you want another story, you have to find a storyteller….or at least one a bit more in practice and a little bit less burned.

My necklace.   I don’t have to tell you it broke last night.  It was a little bit frightening in its immediacy.  But, in the most positive and optimistic manner, I put it back together on another rope and I put it on this morning.  We’ll continue to see.  24 hours with almost all of them trapped in an office isn’t really telling.  I guess I was hoping for proof for my faith.  For faith in a honey pill.

So, things of the day, things that you need to know – I’m not sure what they are.  I worked.  I went to the grocery store.  I came home.  I came to the page looking for a clue. 

I’m trying to get well, stir up some courage for tomorrow so I don’t crumble again beneath the waves of responsibility.  I’m trying to figure out what to do when I’m scrambling and what I’m doing is pulling me down harder. 

I need to write.

Boy, I’m not feeling all that precious tonight.  My hands hurt, the computer’s hot, and I’m watching Touched By An Angel on youtube.  I like myself a lot better when I’m not cowering, but I expect that’s fairly universal.  Apparently, as I’m learning from this show, most everything can be affected just by fixing the lighting.  A warm glow and you stop questioning.   I like its sweetness, though.  I like imagining angels that are so keen to help, to help with every problem, every distress.  Just being emotionally less than is a reason for them to call in the troops and soft light you back into correctness.  Gauzily straightening in a breath everything you’ve allowed to corkscrew.  Saying you’re blameless and good and have purpose and hope.  Sometimes even a cynic wants to buy in.  It’s a good short-term solution which is about the only solution I have to turn to right now. 

Time, I think, to spend a little quality time with my friends and not just the voices in my head, my sarcasm and my defeatist attitudes.  Right? Right.

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The Great Plan

July 6, 2009 at 2:53 am (diary) (, , , , , , , )

Whatever it is, the Great Plan has to have some groundrules to be followed.  Otherwise, I don’t think I can be held to much account for following it.  I’ve been trying to think about it today, loosely, because I know that the Great Plan is wildly disparate.  It can mean everything and in so doing choke itself on its own tail.  It can mean nothing and literally mean nothing. 

I have this piece of amber that several years ago I invested something into.  I invested in this pseudo-magical-kitchen-witchery-need-to-do-something piece of amber what little I knew about what I hoped for in terms of someone coming into my life.  I don’t know what I believe in, but I think that there’s something in a person’s will, in their hopes, and in their fears that can become a kind of energy, a magic that can alter what does and doesn’t happen for them.  I don’t mean The Craft, I just mean….I put enough into it that I couldn’t wear it as the necklace it was meant to be.  I couldn’t even bring myself to put it on because of the possibility that it could work.  That it could honestly bring me someone who could be kind, and funny, and liberal and true and like bad movies and be in the right spot in terms of overcoming all my massive insecurities and troubles and then, I’d be in the terrible fix of having no good reason to rebuff him. 

This was an issue because of the after.  The dangerous after.  An after I had no clear visioning process for.  An after that could leave me really messed up or an after that I could tramp through with my army boots and destroy even just by accident.  Commitment issues, sure, why not.  It felt like a forever that would impact everything.  That if it was the answer to everything it would stop the search, stop the wanting, stop the status quo. 

So, I have this piece of amber.  It’s been through the washing machine.  It’s been in an out of pockets and purses, under pillows, everywhere but around my neck – hanging there, announcing that I might have some hope, some want, some sincere desire.  I’m thinking about wearing it now until I do.  Or until he arrives.

I know there’s the basic argument that love arrives when you least expect it, when you’re out Great Planning something else.  But I’ve been doing other things for as long as I can remember, with intermittent splashes of maybe! and a boatload of depressingly unacceptable even to someone with no real standards to speak of, and nothing obvious has ever snuck into my ken.  

So, one piece of the Great Plan, might be this.  Wearing this necklace for whatever it means or doesn’t mean, whatever it brings or doesn’t, because I’m trying to let down these Great Walls.  I had a whole Great Barrier Reef joke that didn’t quite work.  But, I hope you get some of this drift.

It’s the color and shape of a honey tear.

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One If By Land

July 5, 2009 at 5:42 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

I don’t think I’ll have any trouble with five hundred today.  But maybe that jinxes it.

I’m riding the red tide today, so I am going to blame some of this on that.  But some of this has a blood red source all its own and as I run my mind over its tender delta, I can hear a little scream.   I’m so lonesome I could die, a possibly wise man once crooned.  I am with you, possibly wise man. Death and this isolation feel akin.  I know the latter so well I know its shape in the dark, I know it when it takes my hand.

It is all anniversaries and promises and forever and a day drops me into the deep end of the pool and I drown.

Sorry.  Emo.

I really liked him today and I was invisible again.  And I said okay.  It was reasonable invisibility.  I was in a corner with headphones and the day was busy and strained and yet.  Yet.  I feel like this is going to be the way of it.   And I am going to be driven mad as a result.  Because I feel like such a non-person, so utterly unwanted and set aside and ordered to cheer everyone else on.  Like I’ve been classified a non-combatant.  I feel as choppy as these sentences.

I’m having alcohol in bed.   A good 4th of July or a really ugly one?  I want to stop feeling shitty and emotionally wasteful since there’s no one in the house that’s going to be able to give me any resolution except myself.   And even if I asked them, how could they resolve the reason that at this age I’m still so unattached.  So willfully…frustrated.  And now I’m getting frustrated.  I really don’t want to talk about this.  Post about it.  Whatever.

So many times before I’ve written along these lines, but never actually addressed the acute truth.  I don’t want to yet, either.  I can’t.  I hope I will if that’s one of the steps needed in the great plan.   I’m sure I could if I knew that it was.  That’s a trick of the great plan is that I never know what is required of me until it’s immediately apparent.

Things:

Lame fireworks.
Lame dude asking if I’d sit on his lap.  Somehow, asshole, you’ve given me ample opportunity to respond to your creepy queries, maybe the better thing to do is just to shut up instead of forcing me to “slap you” if you “get sassy.”  You’re very lucky that I find you completely benign and so unfuckable I foregawt hw to spel.  Otherwise, none of this would be allowed to happen.
Lame catching nice guy’s eye but not being sure if it was good or just stupid.  Likely the latter or he thinks I have some kind of dust in my eye.
Lame being totally insulted about the music in my Ipod.
Lame having to give my bowl of cherries to some random neighbors.  Lame that my salsa is gone.  Lame that everyone puts their hand out to me, but feels free to rip on me and never say thank you and have absolutely no clue out of the million things going on in my life why I might at any given moment be upset.

Sorry, Lady Liberty, but you said we were free, and that includes freedom to be a self-righteous, angsty bint.

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Badinage for One

July 4, 2009 at 4:46 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , , )

Well, I really don’t feel like doing this tonight. Like at all.

I should do drugs.  I did carry around a box tonight with the single word COKE printed on it.  And another one that read: BEER.  Coulda been a fun night if it was more than just words.  Story of my life.

I don’t have any clue how I’m going to get to 500 words without ending up complete gibberish.  We just finished eating at Village Inn which was pretty quiet except for a group of seven or so self-righteous teens and some kind of parental supervisory unit and they were all talking about the immorality of abortion.  My sister and I actually got up and got our food to go.  It was ridiculous because not only were they full of asinine confidence about the moral state of the soul and when conception happens (all this decided at the Village Inn, alert the media) – they were abrasively loud.

So tonight – it’s late at my crepes benedict feel like a wheelbarrow full of bricks got dumped in my stomach.  I don’t know what to talk about.  We can talk about tomorrow and freedom and fireworks and hanging out and being rad at the farmers’ market.  Or some variation thereof.  I’m not great at plying my words tonight.  Too tired and guilty.  It doesn’t grease the wheels.

Stupid man continued to be stupid.  I don’t know what he’s thinking.  This kind of overweening praise only serves to make him look…well, overweening and desperate and obnoxious.  At least to me.  I don’t need every time I see him to be complimented on how I have it together, or how I handle everything so well, or my overall aplomb or how I’m looking good or how if everything gets better with age in a few years I’ll be fucking Gandhi (that was my paraphrasing as I’m sure the actual wording was too lame to exist on this blog.)  It’s creepy.   It’s just creepy.

And it makes it difficult for me as I’m wildly in love with the voice of another man with the same name.  Yes, wildly.  His voice.  Yes.  It’s this David Duchovny-esque monotone and it sets my soul aflame.  This is a dangerous conflation of sign and signified.   They really couldn’t be more different except that both are convinced that I’m professionally more professional than I’d ever profess or than could ever be reality.  Yeah, say it three times fast.  And one has this tragic conception (it doesn’t begin with the sperm and the egg, kids, it begins with the dolt and the flapping jaw.  SHUT. IT.) that I might turn to him and bat my fucking eyelashes and give him some sort of satisfaction.  The other is oblivious to the fact that I may have saved his freaking life, that I bring him cake because I’m in love with his voice and I want to hear him talk about, well, everything in that sardonic manner that reduces everything to a pithy, dismissive soundbite.  He wasn’t in tonight so I had to give cake to the semi-rastafarian chick who ran the desk and look over my shoulder in despair to see if he was hiding in the racks.  Not so.  Another thing let go for another day.

Tomorrow I’m bringing my Decameron, my poetry, my Ipod, a pen and paper, maybe my laptop and a winning smile to our farmers’ market and see what I can pick up.  If the nice guy is there, as expected, the great plan involves staring at him until both of us are really uncomfortable.  I didn’t say it was a good plan…just a great one.  

The man in hospice yet lives.

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Punch to the Voicebox

July 2, 2009 at 4:51 am (diary) (, , , , )

That’s an anemic sounding car horn.

Sometimes I like the songs they play on the radio.

Irritation and frustration, saddlebags to the stars.

Things about today.

I don’t know why I was so damn chatty yesterday and now I totally cannot be arse to string together a sentence.  There’s not been any movement on any front.  Except maybe one, but I don’t want to jinx that by being too mouthy on the topic because mouthiness is one excuse for the obliteration of an ideal.  Which sounds sort of existential, but comes down to me just wanting not to feel like a failure yet again.  If I can avoid that, believe me, I will.

Things I want to do once I find a person good enough – qualified – not deranged – not unmoved to do these things with.  (It is hilarious how I have to convince myself that no one I know will ever read this, because seriously, no one I don’t know is reading it, either):

Go to the zoo.   Not for a day, not for every animal.  We don’t need to go into the giraffe house and I have no interest in anything avian.  I just want to go,  see the gazelles, that crooked sign that explains the difference between dromedary and bactrian camels.  People watch.  Just until I start to feel bad for the animals a little bit.

….

I thought this would be a long list.  That I might use it as a springboard to start to say something meaningful about my outlook on love.  But I don’t have an outlook or a perspective or a toehold.  I’m completely on the outside of the whole phenomenon.  I try, but I find that I go backwards, what attracts me I repulse, what I repulse wants me.  Ah, sweet science.  I try and make a plan aside from pulling up my hemlines and sticking my leg out on street corners.  But there isn’t anything particular I’m longing for.  A person for outdoors, for sharing the breeze and those stunning sunsets, walking about.  A person for indoors, talking about everything that’s outdoors.   I don’t have big ideas.  Or any ideas really.

Meanwhile, my sister may be planning her wedding, another finalizing her divorce and the other one is passing out (from donating blood.)

There’s weird conflict between us.  But right now things are actually okay, something I couldn’t say a couple years ago.  But it puts things in a very real relief – I’m always in waiting and yet, I have no idea what to stick my neck out for.  What’s worth going through all of this for…no big plans, no real daydreams of a joined life.  Just the sense that I really fucking need one for reasons beyond wanting to tell someone that the sound of the wind chimes and the air blowing tonight is amazing…even if it’s not doing a damn thing to cool me down.

I want someone for inside and outside.  For sudden heat lightning in the courtyard.  For the story of the walk with more than eight brown rabbits – my good luck charm (they’ve each got four feet a’piece, how can they not be lucky?)  For a backrub.  For a consistent murmur that I can spell, I do have a good heart, and in me there is an invincible season that is beautiful…to some folks.  There’s a reason to carry on.

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