Still have exams to contend with--the first tomorrow morning, in fact. But the other night was entirely worth tomorrow's potential stress. It was a dessert and wine party, from 9-1 am on paper--but of course, the long-train ride and intended study hours meant for me, it was from more like 9:30 - 12 am. Considering I never meant to stay past 11, however, the party was a really good time. Great people to meet (besides L & J, that is, who of course I'd met before :), like four water signs--2 Scorpios with great tattoos, one a Piscean photographer/slash film-maker, me, and a lovely girl with a sad, long-distance story, who was nonetheless about to leave for a nine month stint abroad--traveling everywhere from New Zealand to Japan to China to India to Amsterdam to Spain to Scotland. !! Doing what? Well, street performing, probably some of the time, or whenever a decent theater/venue failed to present itself. So amazing, all of these folks' stories. And the wine!! And the understanding!! Divine. So, then it was over, and I scrambled out having missed M's call. All the lovely time spent, still recognizing sharply how much fun he'd have been having, were he with me.
On the train(s) back home--an hour-or-so-long journey. I stuffed myself into a corner and focused on the good tunes pumping into my eardrums, wondering if I'd miss another call while underground. At a nameless stop, two people wandered into the train, among loads of others, and sat near me. One was a kid with a satin emerald coat: dark-hair & eyed, swaying as though to the music of his own massive headphones. He sat down heavy on the seat right in front of me, not looking at me and my having to move my knees out of the way to allow it. The other was an older, dark-skinned man--clearly homeless, clearly intoxicated, holding an old plastic water bottle full of booze in his right hand, and eying me meaningfully from the slightly deformed half of his face. He sat down right next to me, so that I was effectively locked in to my corner seat, between the two of them.
What ensued was subtle, most of the time, and my attention was taken up mostly by my latter neighbor--though my former still stayed in the back of my mind. The guy next to me was named "Wilton", and the first thing he said to me was a half-question, half-demand--wanting to know what I was listening to and wanting to hear it for himself. I took off my head phones with a smile and let him lean towards me, pressing one of the speakers to his ear. I asked, laughing at his bewildered expression, "Do you like the Indigo Girls?" He asked back, "Were they ever on TV?" and I said, "Probably!", not having a clue. Seeing my smile still fixed, he naturally misunderstood it, and put his big hand over mine, folded in my lap, leering, "Well, hun, if you like what I like, and if I like what you like, maybe we can like things together, sometime..." Tightening my smile but not letting it go completely, I pointedly removed his hand from my lap and let it drop back onto his, telling him easily, "I don't think you like what I like, but thanks for the offer." Luckily, he took the hint and it wasn't too bad after that. He told me thanks for chatting and he'd let me get back to my music now, but when I did he asked me if i had any Michael Jackson before launching into his own theories of the life, times, and tragedies of said pop star. The gravamen of his point i could even partially agree with--which is that no one really knew the guy at all, when it came right down to it, and the fact that half the world loved him with all of their might really has nothing to do with it.
All the while this back and forth went on, I was half-aware of the kid right in front of me. No longer looking straight head or swaying, he'd bent down to hold his head in his hands, elbows propped up on his skinny knees. At this point, being confused again by the continuing semi-conversation, Wilton began to tell me how i was mad cool for talking to him, and was i sure i didn't want to meet him on the train again next Friday, but before the lady doth protest too much, the train came to another halting stop and the kid in the thing green coat stood up shakily and meandered off. That's when Wilton stopped mid-come-on and looked down between where the kid's legs had just been, "Whoo-ee!" he exclaimed, "That kid done just lost his shit!" I looked down and sure enough, a giant circle of chunky puke had appeared right where a moment ago it wasn't, and right-quick I took the opportunity to grimace overtly and get myself out from my locked in corner, telling Wilton there was no way i could sit next to a pile of puke for another hundred stops! I climbed through the suddenly open space, careful not to step on the defiled place floor of the A-Train, and switched seats to a nice snug spot between a couple Asian girls a few sections down. Wilton, too, got up, and wandered to another seat. When he bent down to sit in it he somehow managed to spill beer over the front of his pants, and it was then that I noticed an open beer can tucked into the inner pocket of his jean jacket. Seeing the spill himself, he got up again and wandered further down the train from me, not really grinning anymore, and then out of my sight.
Looking straight ahead myself, now, i noticed the advertisements that took up the whole top part of the train I was on. There was a picture of a gorgeous black woman in evening gown, with chains in her teeth. The chains flowed over to wrap around the neck of an equally gorgeous white woman, similarly dressed, whose head was thrown back in ecstatic laughter. It was a Remy Martin liquor ad, and the caption read: "Things are about to get interesting." I laughed out loud and thought--that's not drunk. Tonight--just now--pawing sober girls and losing your cookies on the fucking train...this is what drunk looks like. Still, I had to give Wilton credit too--I'd just seen the difference between a professional alcoholic and a silly amateur kid who just couldn't hold it together. Well, I guess everyone has to be good at something. And anyway, who ultimately turned out to be the more offensive, right? Ha! Sheesh. Anyway.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/6/09)
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M,
I love you. And still...
...you've never nuzzled my neck;
...you've never met my whole family;
...you've never touched me so softly, or gently;
...you've never kissed my toes,
.....or asked me, "Can I give you a massage?"
...you never hold my hand
.....or stare at me
.......or make me feel beautiful
.........or strong
.........or loved.
After all this time, you still give me reason
...to question you.
.....Your commitment,
.......your authenticity,
.........your eyesight,
.................hindsight,
.................foresight.
I ask you to write down key words,
...the substance of your love--
.....Me. "Why?"
You do write me. (Why do i love you so much for that?!)
...It reiterates in short-hand what you've
.....already expressed.
'That I'm a great girlfriend.' Not Me. What I Do For You.
You then give me permission to come home
...even though you don't guarantee that you'll be there.
And I'm not sure if I want it--either one. Anymore.
...Because where's my permission? My allowance? My
.....guarantee? My promise? My compromise? My sacrifice? My
.......evidence? From You. You never question how I love you,
but it's not because you're more secure.
...It's just that I don't let you.
... (Remember?)
...you've never nuzzled my neck;
...you've never met my whole family;
...you've never touched me so softly, or gently;
...you've never kissed my toes,
.....or asked me, "Can I give you a massage?"
...you never hold my hand
.....or stare at me
.......or make me feel beautiful
.........or strong
.........or loved.
After all this time, you still give me reason
...to question you.
.....Your commitment,
.......your authenticity,
.........your eyesight,
.................hindsight,
.................foresight.
I ask you to write down key words,
...the substance of your love--
.....Me. "Why?"
You do write me. (Why do i love you so much for that?!)
...It reiterates in short-hand what you've
.....already expressed.
'That I'm a great girlfriend.' Not Me. What I Do For You.
You then give me permission to come home
...even though you don't guarantee that you'll be there.
And I'm not sure if I want it--either one. Anymore.
...Because where's my permission? My allowance? My
.....guarantee? My promise? My compromise? My sacrifice? My
.......evidence? From You. You never question how I love you,
but it's not because you're more secure.
...It's just that I don't let you.
... (Remember?)
"No time like the present to be where we are!" Right.
Toothache. Two and a half years old; almost as old as we are. Just as biting, here and now. Tomorrow is my last class before exams: a question and answer session. Optional. I'm going, but I don't have any questions to contribute--they'll come, i know. I go to listen to the answers. I will go to learn how to ask...what? Anything. The point is to keep talking--to remind everyone you're still there. To remind yourself that you're still here, even though you're counting down the days.
Twelve left. But they won't just pass, you will chase them away. Everyday, filling your time with worries and false confidences and sudden arrogance and sweet songs and almost-theres! Not waiting like you'd like, but walking to the end of the line--only to remember the inverse relationship of an end to a beginning; that beginning to its end. I wonder if I'll even notice when the one meets the other and begins again? Probably I won't. "But the circle never cared so much as the square."
Silly stuff. Really, I'm just too full of everything out there--in here--that we let ourselves be filled with. It's like that coffee cup that you can't even sip down for fear of spilling. And I'm not ready to spill. And I should probably cut down on the coffee anyway. So I end-without-ever-beginning to mention the reason I came in the first place. Better to guess, and no good having to remember. Tonight, anyway.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/4/09)
Twelve left. But they won't just pass, you will chase them away. Everyday, filling your time with worries and false confidences and sudden arrogance and sweet songs and almost-theres! Not waiting like you'd like, but walking to the end of the line--only to remember the inverse relationship of an end to a beginning; that beginning to its end. I wonder if I'll even notice when the one meets the other and begins again? Probably I won't. "But the circle never cared so much as the square."
Silly stuff. Really, I'm just too full of everything out there--in here--that we let ourselves be filled with. It's like that coffee cup that you can't even sip down for fear of spilling. And I'm not ready to spill. And I should probably cut down on the coffee anyway. So I end-without-ever-beginning to mention the reason I came in the first place. Better to guess, and no good having to remember. Tonight, anyway.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/4/09)
On hearing of too many deaths at once...
Go figure. That knowledge that sits in your stomach...it's unnecessary to bring it to the forefront. Not before you, rather some thousands of miles away--and sometimes even in the cold thickness of an ancient book--but still there. You can feel it cooling your toes when you lose your socks; it's present in the chilly air of an empty walk. Leaving school late again, but no idea how the hours got to go without so much as your notice, let alone your awkward consent. Beloveds and strangers; admired men and humbled women; folks suddenly described in a court case, when just barely before were walking--thinking--breathing their taken lives for granted.
I think my life for granted, too, but still have it for now--at least this whole. Not with the far-gone ones, nor either the far ones, gone; their passing happened over the telephone. I mourn them only in my mind, and as though on my own, all the way out here. Saying the names aloud, no recognition dawns in any one of my companions' gazes. Or rather, none would, should I dare to speak these names. Better for now, i think, not to see their anonymity reflected in the eyes of sudden friends--point-blank, like the shot-gun blast sought the bad man's abdomen...not right? Maybe no one deserves that fleeting surprise. But then, why should expectation be held at all merciful? Why the wait, taken any less for pain?
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (11/16/09)
I think my life for granted, too, but still have it for now--at least this whole. Not with the far-gone ones, nor either the far ones, gone; their passing happened over the telephone. I mourn them only in my mind, and as though on my own, all the way out here. Saying the names aloud, no recognition dawns in any one of my companions' gazes. Or rather, none would, should I dare to speak these names. Better for now, i think, not to see their anonymity reflected in the eyes of sudden friends--point-blank, like the shot-gun blast sought the bad man's abdomen...not right? Maybe no one deserves that fleeting surprise. But then, why should expectation be held at all merciful? Why the wait, taken any less for pain?
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (11/16/09)
"Since when did our personal problems become public discusion?!"
("Since you started considering me the problem, and stopped being someone I could talk to.")
How did it get to be October anyway? It isn't that time is flying, it's more like I'm flying head first through the days. And in the mean time, the reality of my life has converted to virtual, and the digital age is our heartless/brainless/unwilling accomplice. It's been exactly 2 months now, and so far somehow we're still holding on, aren't we?
This evening my plane will land onto a journey of 2 more hours of public transport before I make it home. Meanwhile, I imagine you're standing perfectly straight, but itchy in the rented linen of a groomsman's tux. After the succinct choreography of the outdated ceremony, I hope you can now revel in being gosh-darn done with a good deed, and maybe even drink a bit in the goodly company of the sweet folks we befriended yesterday--who will be joining you even as I cannot. And all the while I'll continue the journey back to my adopted home: mercilessly far from you, but mercifully lacking in absent memories of the us we used to be, and have.
I told you while we drove together--top down, basking in my father's mustang's borrowed freedom--that if you decided that we should see other people, keeping in touch all the same, that I would be at a disadvantage. I tried with all the articulation I had in me, (whatever was willing and able to be mustered at my beckoning,) to explain to you that the difference between being jealous and not, (and I mean real jealousy here, the knee-jerk, pure bodily kind,) seems to lie in the visualization of your lover's other choice (of lovers). To you, anyone I might meet would be a stranger; for me, there'd be a damn good chance you would fall into the company of a woman I already know--or at least know of. And i know it's similar to the way that you are still living there, while I'm safe in a brand new place. How you're in proximity to the places we loved so well together, littered as they are with our own sweetly shared experience. But the other side of that sharp-ridged coin says that I will suffer the same cruel familiarity if you let yourself love someone i could see whenever i close my eyes--knowing both that she wasn't me (hard enough), but also that she was her, and still managed to take my place.
I shudder at the thought, and hope truly that your being where we once were is not a pain to you, but rather an occasional relief, in that we have christened those places you still haunt, home--in ways that are secret to anyone else--and with a warmth that my present life lacks completely. Like everything, these swords have but two opportunities (not) to sever so cleanly.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/11/09)
How did it get to be October anyway? It isn't that time is flying, it's more like I'm flying head first through the days. And in the mean time, the reality of my life has converted to virtual, and the digital age is our heartless/brainless/unwilling accomplice. It's been exactly 2 months now, and so far somehow we're still holding on, aren't we?
This evening my plane will land onto a journey of 2 more hours of public transport before I make it home. Meanwhile, I imagine you're standing perfectly straight, but itchy in the rented linen of a groomsman's tux. After the succinct choreography of the outdated ceremony, I hope you can now revel in being gosh-darn done with a good deed, and maybe even drink a bit in the goodly company of the sweet folks we befriended yesterday--who will be joining you even as I cannot. And all the while I'll continue the journey back to my adopted home: mercilessly far from you, but mercifully lacking in absent memories of the us we used to be, and have.
I told you while we drove together--top down, basking in my father's mustang's borrowed freedom--that if you decided that we should see other people, keeping in touch all the same, that I would be at a disadvantage. I tried with all the articulation I had in me, (whatever was willing and able to be mustered at my beckoning,) to explain to you that the difference between being jealous and not, (and I mean real jealousy here, the knee-jerk, pure bodily kind,) seems to lie in the visualization of your lover's other choice (of lovers). To you, anyone I might meet would be a stranger; for me, there'd be a damn good chance you would fall into the company of a woman I already know--or at least know of. And i know it's similar to the way that you are still living there, while I'm safe in a brand new place. How you're in proximity to the places we loved so well together, littered as they are with our own sweetly shared experience. But the other side of that sharp-ridged coin says that I will suffer the same cruel familiarity if you let yourself love someone i could see whenever i close my eyes--knowing both that she wasn't me (hard enough), but also that she was her, and still managed to take my place.
I shudder at the thought, and hope truly that your being where we once were is not a pain to you, but rather an occasional relief, in that we have christened those places you still haunt, home--in ways that are secret to anyone else--and with a warmth that my present life lacks completely. Like everything, these swords have but two opportunities (not) to sever so cleanly.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/11/09)
"And other things..."
...like what if my brother's plane were to crash, now that I've convinced him to come? Spur of the moment, on the eve of his very first child, already loved more than I realized an unborn soul could be. What if I were the proximate cause of that tragedy? AND had to live to see what it did to our sweet grandmother, who we're all flying out to see? (The old woman doesn't even know we're on our way--she never would have asked us to come, let alone expected that we would...she probably wouldn't even have allowed it, had she known. And if we don't make it, good lord forbid!, I hope with everything in me that nobody ever tells her. How utterly ridiculous that would be!)
Then, that final little nothing, which could suddenly swallow a survivor up with its difficult, nihilistic summons: what about all of my stuff? My stupid, absurd, mountain of STUFF!? And my beautiful dog; and my reliant roommate; and my unfinished plan; and my abandoned school; and my bills & purple truck? All of it's stacked suddenly without keeper on the other side of the country, forever waiting for me to come home. Because if I don't, it all scatters--I'm the glue that brought & holds all of it together. But someone else will have to go there to collect, divvy up, discard & keep track of so many things which are utterly without meaning, without me. Without history, once their record keeper is lost. None of it's valuable (to anyone else)--and yet it would need to be "handled" by somebody. Who would take on that burden? My mother? My dad? Would i have him bury his mother and daughter--both born and dead in the same month of different years--on a whim? To God, the universe, and EVERYTHING, I ask that the answer to that last question is 'no'.
Because it's true. Besides all of these negative reasons not to crash, the positive one is simply the sweet fact that i still need to be alive. I love life, and mine entirely/especially. (Even when I'm beating my body with a pillow of exhaustion, all the live long day! :-)
I saw a woman on the train this morning, maybe my age, sitting abreast a stroller and cooing earnestly to the content baby boy slowly staring around him. (A little 'stare bear' indeed...) His mother couldn't seem to stop touching him--his cheeks here; his foot in the miniature sneaker there; adjusting and re-adjusting his sleeves, blanket, jacket, knit cap; pushing his stroller out, then rolling it back in again, unlocking and locking it in place. At one point, she leaned over to put her face right near his and kissed his nose, (startling him only slightly as he took all of it swiftly in stride,) whispering words on her breath to the effect of: "I love you more than life itself. You know that, baby? I love you so, so much..." And another little kiss to brush his cheek, unbelievably soft--as much her kiss as his skin.
And i thought of them--not dead at all, like the rest of this morbid monologue. But alive. Very much alive, and living for years and years. I projected them into the future: in ten years they'd be about 35 and 11...another ten, 45 and 21...and maybe then a new cycling life would come into play, soon thereafter. Like a child of mine one day--how I , too, would fly that child across the nation with a hardly a day's notice, were I to be sitting gently with my dad on his deathbed. So these two, mother and son, now forever a part of each other's lifetimes.
And how beautiful that is--and impossible to truly imagine, if still somehow the easiest thing to believe. The natural simplicity of such cycles, even as i artificially look at them from outside, because of course I never could be (separate).
Even here, sitting on the same plane--still awaiting take-off almost half an hour later. I am listening again to the mantra of how the 'software issues' the pilot has been having are not resolved, but will be ignored for the sake of going forward. Yet I'm not scared in the slightest--even while the children in first class scream heartily for several minutes at a time, perhaps feeling the risks everybody convinces themselves that they aren't taking. After going on & on about pummeling aircrafts bringing unthinkable tragedy, it's hard to explain why I'm not worried now...actually, I feel more like that lovely little boy: ready to take it all in stride, since there's no choice in the matter anyhow.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/9/09)
Then, that final little nothing, which could suddenly swallow a survivor up with its difficult, nihilistic summons: what about all of my stuff? My stupid, absurd, mountain of STUFF!? And my beautiful dog; and my reliant roommate; and my unfinished plan; and my abandoned school; and my bills & purple truck? All of it's stacked suddenly without keeper on the other side of the country, forever waiting for me to come home. Because if I don't, it all scatters--I'm the glue that brought & holds all of it together. But someone else will have to go there to collect, divvy up, discard & keep track of so many things which are utterly without meaning, without me. Without history, once their record keeper is lost. None of it's valuable (to anyone else)--and yet it would need to be "handled" by somebody. Who would take on that burden? My mother? My dad? Would i have him bury his mother and daughter--both born and dead in the same month of different years--on a whim? To God, the universe, and EVERYTHING, I ask that the answer to that last question is 'no'.
Because it's true. Besides all of these negative reasons not to crash, the positive one is simply the sweet fact that i still need to be alive. I love life, and mine entirely/especially. (Even when I'm beating my body with a pillow of exhaustion, all the live long day! :-)
I saw a woman on the train this morning, maybe my age, sitting abreast a stroller and cooing earnestly to the content baby boy slowly staring around him. (A little 'stare bear' indeed...) His mother couldn't seem to stop touching him--his cheeks here; his foot in the miniature sneaker there; adjusting and re-adjusting his sleeves, blanket, jacket, knit cap; pushing his stroller out, then rolling it back in again, unlocking and locking it in place. At one point, she leaned over to put her face right near his and kissed his nose, (startling him only slightly as he took all of it swiftly in stride,) whispering words on her breath to the effect of: "I love you more than life itself. You know that, baby? I love you so, so much..." And another little kiss to brush his cheek, unbelievably soft--as much her kiss as his skin.
And i thought of them--not dead at all, like the rest of this morbid monologue. But alive. Very much alive, and living for years and years. I projected them into the future: in ten years they'd be about 35 and 11...another ten, 45 and 21...and maybe then a new cycling life would come into play, soon thereafter. Like a child of mine one day--how I , too, would fly that child across the nation with a hardly a day's notice, were I to be sitting gently with my dad on his deathbed. So these two, mother and son, now forever a part of each other's lifetimes.
And how beautiful that is--and impossible to truly imagine, if still somehow the easiest thing to believe. The natural simplicity of such cycles, even as i artificially look at them from outside, because of course I never could be (separate).
Even here, sitting on the same plane--still awaiting take-off almost half an hour later. I am listening again to the mantra of how the 'software issues' the pilot has been having are not resolved, but will be ignored for the sake of going forward. Yet I'm not scared in the slightest--even while the children in first class scream heartily for several minutes at a time, perhaps feeling the risks everybody convinces themselves that they aren't taking. After going on & on about pummeling aircrafts bringing unthinkable tragedy, it's hard to explain why I'm not worried now...actually, I feel more like that lovely little boy: ready to take it all in stride, since there's no choice in the matter anyhow.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/9/09)
There are ROCKING CHAIRS in the Charlotte, NC airport!!
(White ones, in fact.) The whole sprawling thing is a shopping mall, being circled by low-flying aircraft. It's a dizzy ballet, but the Bally's around the bend will keep you fit in body if the five Starbucks will take care of your soul. (Wow, this is already sounding kinda dark...)
But I'll knock it off. I only have things to be grateful for, even if they sometimes exhaust me. See six hours ago: I'm sitting on a plane in North Carolina, waiting for my layover to come to its un-intrusive end. The floatation seat cushions are looking very much attached, and it's another reason why I hope we don't crash. But the real reasons would shame me to my core, so tiny and unnoticeable they are, (just) before departure.
I'm thinking of the reason for this trip--to see my tiny grandma sleep peacefully upon her death bed. My presence merely waiting, on the off-chance that she wakes up--maybe wants to say hullo. I worry about how horrible she'd feel if my flight doesn't make it where it's supposed to be going, but crumbles like seasoned croutons on its way over Memphis, instead. Why so pointless a thing is possible, I have no idea. But I pray I don't become the bearer of the blame for that guilt that would grow inside her--or the anger--there on the door-step of eternity where today she talks freely to God.
"And other things..." (Which I'm determined to come back to later!, but at a decent-er hour.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/8/09)
But I'll knock it off. I only have things to be grateful for, even if they sometimes exhaust me. See six hours ago: I'm sitting on a plane in North Carolina, waiting for my layover to come to its un-intrusive end. The floatation seat cushions are looking very much attached, and it's another reason why I hope we don't crash. But the real reasons would shame me to my core, so tiny and unnoticeable they are, (just) before departure.
I'm thinking of the reason for this trip--to see my tiny grandma sleep peacefully upon her death bed. My presence merely waiting, on the off-chance that she wakes up--maybe wants to say hullo. I worry about how horrible she'd feel if my flight doesn't make it where it's supposed to be going, but crumbles like seasoned croutons on its way over Memphis, instead. Why so pointless a thing is possible, I have no idea. But I pray I don't become the bearer of the blame for that guilt that would grow inside her--or the anger--there on the door-step of eternity where today she talks freely to God.
"And other things..." (Which I'm determined to come back to later!, but at a decent-er hour.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/8/09)
Remember, it's mind over matter: if you don't mind, it don't matter!!
Blue Moon reveries and the sound of unfinished business. Still, even unfinished, often content. Like now, sitting cross-legged in this striped armchair, not thinking about time.
My love shared this nice thing with me: "Time is an insult to the present, mockingly saying that over there and then is somehow better or more important than this now," -Bucky Fuller. Don't know who Bucky Fuller is, except that the name sounds likely to have fit somebody, at some point, and I'm apt to think he may have been worth talking to. Something about Rubik's cubes comes to mind...?
Well, then. Just thought I'd process here for a moment. It's been a while since I have, and in the backwards way that most things are, much has happened in the 'down time'. For starters, cuz you know I'm a lover of lists: my lovely grandma has cancer in the form of tumors all over her organs; last weekend i drove a round trip of 24 hours to see my brother for 8, in a sort of family reunion after five years of blind silence on both sides; my mother must deliberate over the question of whether or not she'd be willing to lose her uterus, to beat the wicked odds; another brother--seen more often than the other, and yet further from my heart than anyone else i love--unexpectedly gives enough of a shit to work our issues out, all of a sudden, after several years of bitterness wasted, and the unexpected joy that arises from a once more normal conversation...; my great love, sending me off but left behind in an acidic mixture of willingandunwillingness; another brother's first baby, still just barely on the way, and coming full speed ahead into a life where you're not there; new place, new people, new priorities popping up in every which way and going any direction allowed; old faces, appear and disappear in mind's or mine-own eyes; exhaustion, sometimes, and endless study-sessions, too; the aches and pains of refusing to grow any more than absolutely necessary; gratitude, whenever one can remember to feel it...
Sheesh, it always happens like that. After the list, we realize just how much we're up against (and for), and realize that just the process of naming the things, and getting them out there... It's more than enough to relieve the soul of its shiny burdens. I hope i don't sound too dry--i love everything, really-truly.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (9/19/09!)
My love shared this nice thing with me: "Time is an insult to the present, mockingly saying that over there and then is somehow better or more important than this now," -Bucky Fuller. Don't know who Bucky Fuller is, except that the name sounds likely to have fit somebody, at some point, and I'm apt to think he may have been worth talking to. Something about Rubik's cubes comes to mind...?
Well, then. Just thought I'd process here for a moment. It's been a while since I have, and in the backwards way that most things are, much has happened in the 'down time'. For starters, cuz you know I'm a lover of lists: my lovely grandma has cancer in the form of tumors all over her organs; last weekend i drove a round trip of 24 hours to see my brother for 8, in a sort of family reunion after five years of blind silence on both sides; my mother must deliberate over the question of whether or not she'd be willing to lose her uterus, to beat the wicked odds; another brother--seen more often than the other, and yet further from my heart than anyone else i love--unexpectedly gives enough of a shit to work our issues out, all of a sudden, after several years of bitterness wasted, and the unexpected joy that arises from a once more normal conversation...; my great love, sending me off but left behind in an acidic mixture of willingandunwillingness; another brother's first baby, still just barely on the way, and coming full speed ahead into a life where you're not there; new place, new people, new priorities popping up in every which way and going any direction allowed; old faces, appear and disappear in mind's or mine-own eyes; exhaustion, sometimes, and endless study-sessions, too; the aches and pains of refusing to grow any more than absolutely necessary; gratitude, whenever one can remember to feel it...
Sheesh, it always happens like that. After the list, we realize just how much we're up against (and for), and realize that just the process of naming the things, and getting them out there... It's more than enough to relieve the soul of its shiny burdens. I hope i don't sound too dry--i love everything, really-truly.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (9/19/09!)
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