I wonder who will tire of this first? I don't wish for the affair to end - but I don't care to be the curb kick-ee either. Sometimes I wish I could fold him up and put him in my pocket. Sometimes I'd like to just knock his block off. No matter what we try to go out and do he sits there looking bored. I'm far too nice. I've done "relationships" enough to know what I don't like so much. And this? Could be courting disaster once again or - not. Freewheeling. Just deciding to feel differently about some similar circumstances is all.
Who will phone whom first? Was two nights in a row too much? Too close? We run back to our solitary routines in a hurry lest any closeness creep in. Back in loneliness I buttress feelings and remind myself to not drink of the tempting offer to hope for more. There is no more. There never really has been, ever, in any one's arms, just a cosmic tease of a dream that is in fact, a mirage. I stop and ask, where is it? Where is this love I hear so much about? I don't see it. It cannot survive a face without makeup, morning breath, funny digestive noises, sour pusses, sms messages that go misinterpreted. Thank you for not being too nice. Now I don't have to worry about being in love with you. I don't have to worry about making something last or making sure you love me. I can put on those 4" heels that make me just a bit taller than you - and walk. Whenever I feel like it. Maybe tomorrow.
Does he make sure there is milk for my cereal because he cares or because he's unable to prevent himself from planning everything? Does he fix me breakfast out of courtesy, caring, or because he just doesn't want me dickering around in the kitchen, spilling the chocolate milk and making him late? Why did he make sure to stash some of this tea he knows that I like - yet point out its procurement with such show? When my gluten-free cereal runs out - will the affair be over?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Blue run
I had forgotten how it feels, those first few runs in the spring when the air is still cold but the ground is just melty enough. The encroaching evening is kind and doesn't threaten to freeze the slush beneath me into anything frightening. I ease in for a fast run. It's hard to believe this is a workout - it feels too easy.
From the east, through the thickening aqua air, a moving constellation approaches. First Big Dipper, now Orion's belt, the stars fasten their seat belts, put up tray tables and prepare for a landing. Hello Boston, hello New York, hello London, welcome home.
Lighter than air I chase ovals of amber light down the lakeshore, finally turning. Turning from pavement to the slushy path, abandoning the lights, i trot off into the blue cloud of encroaching night and take the way of trust.
From the east, through the thickening aqua air, a moving constellation approaches. First Big Dipper, now Orion's belt, the stars fasten their seat belts, put up tray tables and prepare for a landing. Hello Boston, hello New York, hello London, welcome home.
Lighter than air I chase ovals of amber light down the lakeshore, finally turning. Turning from pavement to the slushy path, abandoning the lights, i trot off into the blue cloud of encroaching night and take the way of trust.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Wise monkey, foolish heart
If we are the "wise" monkeys, why do we keep making such dumb decisions?
I left him cool his heels for a week. Didn't tell him about Aunt Flo, just left him wonder why I wasn't picking up on any of those subtly placed "So...!" trailers he dropped in conversation. I don't have to really know where anything is going or for how long; I've yet to see any amount of hope or determination pay off in a relationship. When push came to shove and the truth got dragged out from behind the curtain of sweet gestures - they were all just friends with benefits. We've only got but just one day. I don't even want to know about tomorrow.
So on this day, after 7 nights of waking up in that big apartment alone and finding the expanse of a king sized bed to be too much for one person, he lights up my phone like a Christmas tree. Voicemail, SMS, begging, "I need your company". Of course you do. It sucks to be alone, to waste this flesh on empty sheets, to know that no one listens and wonders if you twitch from a nightmare or wake up in the middle of the night thirsty. I know. I take some persuading. I have to wash my hair, after all. But... ok. I'm far too nice to you, but OK.
I can make the requisite turn through my home in under an hour and a half. Make a 250 calorie smoothie for dinner, take a shower, blowout hair, change the clothes, pack the bag, grab the mail.
Hey! puffy envelope!!! It could be the proof for my novel come from the publisher! How exciting! I flip the package over and...shit. It is the return of a borrowed novel from the former hostage of my affections. I had completely forgotten about that whole deal as for over a month he'd been only an electronic presence. SMS messages telling me I meant nothing. Indicators on a singles site telling me that he never stopped looking over his shoulder for something better. Emails holding to the politest line of information exchange. This envelope is, at last, the caboose. But it's still funny to see his scratches on the envelope. I'm grateful that there is no awkward attempt at personal communication inside, but I do find a discarded bookmark in the pages. It's a ticket stub to a broadway show dated Jan 21. So that's what you were up to when not returning my calls. For a second a vision of a gesture, the way he looked standing in my vestibule, a scent, wafts through my mind. I let it pass through like a breeze. Not catching it to squeeze forth any meaning, I just let it go, let it pass into the thick forest of memory. Let it mean nothing.
On the bus I send an sms indicating my arrival time. The trail of messages, collected here over weeks, is like a sieve run through our relationship and coming up with the grosser chunks of truth. Here is encouragement, here is longing, here is capitulation. Here I go again - making the same situation that somewhat resembles a potential mess despite what experience has taught me. Smart. I'm on this bus because my apartment is big and lonely, too. I'm on this bus because a destructive spring full of fairy tales about love still bubbles and seeps under my rocky exterior. I'm on this bus because I want something and haven't quite put my finger on just the way to not need it anymore. I'm on this bus because something in my nature always says "full steam ahead" forgetting it's the engine, not the caboose, that kills you when it strikes. I'm on this bus because, today, it just doesn't feel like the most loving thing to stay alone.
I left him cool his heels for a week. Didn't tell him about Aunt Flo, just left him wonder why I wasn't picking up on any of those subtly placed "So...!" trailers he dropped in conversation. I don't have to really know where anything is going or for how long; I've yet to see any amount of hope or determination pay off in a relationship. When push came to shove and the truth got dragged out from behind the curtain of sweet gestures - they were all just friends with benefits. We've only got but just one day. I don't even want to know about tomorrow.
So on this day, after 7 nights of waking up in that big apartment alone and finding the expanse of a king sized bed to be too much for one person, he lights up my phone like a Christmas tree. Voicemail, SMS, begging, "I need your company". Of course you do. It sucks to be alone, to waste this flesh on empty sheets, to know that no one listens and wonders if you twitch from a nightmare or wake up in the middle of the night thirsty. I know. I take some persuading. I have to wash my hair, after all. But... ok. I'm far too nice to you, but OK.
I can make the requisite turn through my home in under an hour and a half. Make a 250 calorie smoothie for dinner, take a shower, blowout hair, change the clothes, pack the bag, grab the mail.
Hey! puffy envelope!!! It could be the proof for my novel come from the publisher! How exciting! I flip the package over and...shit. It is the return of a borrowed novel from the former hostage of my affections. I had completely forgotten about that whole deal as for over a month he'd been only an electronic presence. SMS messages telling me I meant nothing. Indicators on a singles site telling me that he never stopped looking over his shoulder for something better. Emails holding to the politest line of information exchange. This envelope is, at last, the caboose. But it's still funny to see his scratches on the envelope. I'm grateful that there is no awkward attempt at personal communication inside, but I do find a discarded bookmark in the pages. It's a ticket stub to a broadway show dated Jan 21. So that's what you were up to when not returning my calls. For a second a vision of a gesture, the way he looked standing in my vestibule, a scent, wafts through my mind. I let it pass through like a breeze. Not catching it to squeeze forth any meaning, I just let it go, let it pass into the thick forest of memory. Let it mean nothing.
On the bus I send an sms indicating my arrival time. The trail of messages, collected here over weeks, is like a sieve run through our relationship and coming up with the grosser chunks of truth. Here is encouragement, here is longing, here is capitulation. Here I go again - making the same situation that somewhat resembles a potential mess despite what experience has taught me. Smart. I'm on this bus because my apartment is big and lonely, too. I'm on this bus because a destructive spring full of fairy tales about love still bubbles and seeps under my rocky exterior. I'm on this bus because I want something and haven't quite put my finger on just the way to not need it anymore. I'm on this bus because something in my nature always says "full steam ahead" forgetting it's the engine, not the caboose, that kills you when it strikes. I'm on this bus because, today, it just doesn't feel like the most loving thing to stay alone.
Friday, February 20, 2009
tasca
Let me stick you in my pocket. You'd be warm and cozy and well contained in there. I would feel you curled up at my hip and pat you softly with silent contentment, knowing that you are safe.
Your dimples and soft skin need meet no more harsh gusts of reality. They need face the possibility of judgment and rejection no more. The guarantee of regular visits from adoring fingers seeking your warmth would be the only surprise. But these would come often to curl up in your flesh. I know you're not a cat, and that a life of safe contentment isn't the vision you hold for yourself. But then why do you purr in your sleep?
No, this isn't a proposal of love; we're both too selfish for that. But no one wants to go through life with empty pockets and find their heart shivering out in the cold.
Your dimples and soft skin need meet no more harsh gusts of reality. They need face the possibility of judgment and rejection no more. The guarantee of regular visits from adoring fingers seeking your warmth would be the only surprise. But these would come often to curl up in your flesh. I know you're not a cat, and that a life of safe contentment isn't the vision you hold for yourself. But then why do you purr in your sleep?
No, this isn't a proposal of love; we're both too selfish for that. But no one wants to go through life with empty pockets and find their heart shivering out in the cold.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
child of god
Empty 2 quart bottle next to him on the floor. Stink and cloudy gaze cast hazily about the fellow passengers. On a crowded train where people are standing, the seat next to him is empty. His pants aren't all the way up because there's no belt. It could be some fashion statement, or he could really be 'jailin' as the smell of him denotes a stint in the clink during recent hours.. But as he sits it's obvious the waistband stops well short of the tighty whities. It's this, more than the smell and curious, hazy begging in his eyes that keeps that seat empty. One might sit down and find yourself in contact with that naked bit of upper thigh.
The fragrance of hard liquor on breath is broken up by the aroma of tomato sauce and oregano coming from the take home pizza a woman boards, clutching in her hands. He points a dirty finger toward the box, asking if he can have her leftovers. By the looks of her, she's chubby enough to not warrant needing anything in that box, but she refuses. Turns to keep the box away from him.
It takes him minutes to stand up and get ready for the next stop. I keep hoping that those pants timidly holding to his thighs won't fall. He picks up his empty bottle and tries stuffing it under the mass of his many layers of shirts, dropping it once. When the doors open he lurches out and we all hear the smash of that bottle onto the platform. Passengers react, shake their heads. He staggers off down the platform, child of god.
The fragrance of hard liquor on breath is broken up by the aroma of tomato sauce and oregano coming from the take home pizza a woman boards, clutching in her hands. He points a dirty finger toward the box, asking if he can have her leftovers. By the looks of her, she's chubby enough to not warrant needing anything in that box, but she refuses. Turns to keep the box away from him.
It takes him minutes to stand up and get ready for the next stop. I keep hoping that those pants timidly holding to his thighs won't fall. He picks up his empty bottle and tries stuffing it under the mass of his many layers of shirts, dropping it once. When the doors open he lurches out and we all hear the smash of that bottle onto the platform. Passengers react, shake their heads. He staggers off down the platform, child of god.
Friday, February 13, 2009
49 on 13
49 People.
Just fifty less one people on a plane into a relatively nowhere city. When you say you're flying into New York City, Chicago, or San Francisco the response usually amounts to an excited "oooo!". But say you're flying to Buffalo and you get "oh". Oh, you must know someone there. Oh, you must have a darn good reason. Oh, now where is that?Is that in Wyoming?
Yet on that plane, in those 49 people who sat in seats and landed in flames, were a cantor, an activist for 911 families' rights, an activist who was among the first in this country to sound the alarm on Darfur, an aunt of one friend, & the colleagues of another. Just 49, like taking a metal scoop, dipping it into the giant well of humanity and look what you come up with. Probably there were more than a couple sinners on there, too, like people who might have been unfaithful to a spouse during their sojourn in New York City. Even the saintly among them might have lied to get out of an extra $20 charge at the hotel. "Internet? I didn't use no internet!" Sure, we know who all was on that flight, now. But did THEY know?
But it makes me pause, just to think of what kind of calibur was among just 49 humans flying around in one tin can. Of all those planes I've been on in the past year... who was on there with me? What were their stories? I remember the screaming babies, for sure, and the daffy-professor type who sat next to me coming back from London. But then, too, there was the skinny little man with his even skinnier and littler family, exhausted from having traveled all the way from Myanmar. They were refugees from the typhoon. He held out the large card hanging from a string around his neck to explain himself to me. I could only frown as my imagination filled in the gaps. I said "oh". I made sure he had lots of water and pillows. That was the flight back from... Atlanta? San Francisco? New York? Shit.
It gives me something to think about as I eyeball my fellow fliers for she who clearly brought on luggage too large to be a carry on and he who obviously ate beans for lunch before getting into the seat in front of me. Who are they all, really, beyond the normal sensory offenses which make convenient excuses for distance?
Just fifty less one people on a plane into a relatively nowhere city. When you say you're flying into New York City, Chicago, or San Francisco the response usually amounts to an excited "oooo!". But say you're flying to Buffalo and you get "oh". Oh, you must know someone there. Oh, you must have a darn good reason. Oh, now where is that?Is that in Wyoming?
Yet on that plane, in those 49 people who sat in seats and landed in flames, were a cantor, an activist for 911 families' rights, an activist who was among the first in this country to sound the alarm on Darfur, an aunt of one friend, & the colleagues of another. Just 49, like taking a metal scoop, dipping it into the giant well of humanity and look what you come up with. Probably there were more than a couple sinners on there, too, like people who might have been unfaithful to a spouse during their sojourn in New York City. Even the saintly among them might have lied to get out of an extra $20 charge at the hotel. "Internet? I didn't use no internet!" Sure, we know who all was on that flight, now. But did THEY know?
But it makes me pause, just to think of what kind of calibur was among just 49 humans flying around in one tin can. Of all those planes I've been on in the past year... who was on there with me? What were their stories? I remember the screaming babies, for sure, and the daffy-professor type who sat next to me coming back from London. But then, too, there was the skinny little man with his even skinnier and littler family, exhausted from having traveled all the way from Myanmar. They were refugees from the typhoon. He held out the large card hanging from a string around his neck to explain himself to me. I could only frown as my imagination filled in the gaps. I said "oh". I made sure he had lots of water and pillows. That was the flight back from... Atlanta? San Francisco? New York? Shit.
It gives me something to think about as I eyeball my fellow fliers for she who clearly brought on luggage too large to be a carry on and he who obviously ate beans for lunch before getting into the seat in front of me. Who are they all, really, beyond the normal sensory offenses which make convenient excuses for distance?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I'm the "one"
Do not look at that oracle again. Do not pick it up. Do not ask the same question you ask every damn time. For just one moment of one day, let it go.
I've had my opinions about what I thought should happen in one situation and what I thought should have happened in another. I wouldn't even have called them opinions at the time, but they were; they were judgments. I thought B~ was a horrible disappointment and that events revealed hideous flaws of character. But I thought that because of my hope and expectations about the direction of our relationship. I really thought we would be in a long term relationship. I could envision him meeting my family or worse, making one. And that will never happen. I can see, now, how my expectations of him proved to mismatch the character he brought to the table. Expectation and hope were the only offenses, really. He was who he was and I came in with an unvocalized demand that the picture we make together look a certain way. Sure, I was willing to do my part to make that happen. But THAT had to happen. This has been the ripple underneath all of my dating escapades - stay with me.
And why do I crave this? It's like some odd obsession whose origins I cannot pin down. It's a chain tethered to some undisclosed location which constantly yanks my thoughts back into the same old rut. Please love me, please stay with me. Not only do I not need this thing I crave, seeking to sate it would be to my great detriment. What if I had married any of those various men I'd pinned hopes and time upon in the past? I'd be miserable! None of them were someone I could have been with for a long time. None of them were 'partners'. And have I ever really wanted a partner? Open the dirty, dark chasm of my mind and what hides in there is a woman shivering with fear and hoping to not face life. She wants someone to hide behind, protect her, hold her hand. That frightened form is a lie.
I feel it already with the Italian. I'm wondering why we don't talk about this or that... go do this or that... why it doesn't feel THIS way. Frankly, it's not supposed to look like anything! He's never ever going to fulfill that secret and unacknowledged fantasy of permanent security. He will never be the perfect partner. He will just be G~ and he'll be around for as long as he or I care to be. I don't know what his soul is up to in this. I don't know what B~'s soul was up to. There's nothing I can take from them. I don't need them to be who I am. What I am here to express will come out regardless. I'm slowly realizing that I'm just simply not here to judge and in not judging I save myself from expectation. In not expecting I take us all off the hook for results.
For a day I give myself a break. I don't let my imagination run anywhere. I don't think of certain people when song lyrics come up. I remind myself that there is no future. And for a bit I feel clean.
I've had my opinions about what I thought should happen in one situation and what I thought should have happened in another. I wouldn't even have called them opinions at the time, but they were; they were judgments. I thought B~ was a horrible disappointment and that events revealed hideous flaws of character. But I thought that because of my hope and expectations about the direction of our relationship. I really thought we would be in a long term relationship. I could envision him meeting my family or worse, making one. And that will never happen. I can see, now, how my expectations of him proved to mismatch the character he brought to the table. Expectation and hope were the only offenses, really. He was who he was and I came in with an unvocalized demand that the picture we make together look a certain way. Sure, I was willing to do my part to make that happen. But THAT had to happen. This has been the ripple underneath all of my dating escapades - stay with me.
And why do I crave this? It's like some odd obsession whose origins I cannot pin down. It's a chain tethered to some undisclosed location which constantly yanks my thoughts back into the same old rut. Please love me, please stay with me. Not only do I not need this thing I crave, seeking to sate it would be to my great detriment. What if I had married any of those various men I'd pinned hopes and time upon in the past? I'd be miserable! None of them were someone I could have been with for a long time. None of them were 'partners'. And have I ever really wanted a partner? Open the dirty, dark chasm of my mind and what hides in there is a woman shivering with fear and hoping to not face life. She wants someone to hide behind, protect her, hold her hand. That frightened form is a lie.
I feel it already with the Italian. I'm wondering why we don't talk about this or that... go do this or that... why it doesn't feel THIS way. Frankly, it's not supposed to look like anything! He's never ever going to fulfill that secret and unacknowledged fantasy of permanent security. He will never be the perfect partner. He will just be G~ and he'll be around for as long as he or I care to be. I don't know what his soul is up to in this. I don't know what B~'s soul was up to. There's nothing I can take from them. I don't need them to be who I am. What I am here to express will come out regardless. I'm slowly realizing that I'm just simply not here to judge and in not judging I save myself from expectation. In not expecting I take us all off the hook for results.
For a day I give myself a break. I don't let my imagination run anywhere. I don't think of certain people when song lyrics come up. I remind myself that there is no future. And for a bit I feel clean.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
I am welcome
At 11 pm the row of lights atop of the Hancock tower blink off. Up here I can look passing clouds in the eye. Up here I look down over buildings as windows shut their eyes and go dark for the night. It's that time again. Time again I'm listening to the sound of him sleeping next to me, sounding like the soft purr of a giant cat. It's time again I look out over the skyline, over the night city, and wonder.
I never know how to figure these out. I can lie here suspecting that this man just won't understand certain parts of me. But roll the tape back even one month to a man I thought did understand. Re-hear his talk; the sweet and understanding language. Hold his subsequent behavior up to the light and observe what hideous revelation of character eventually brought into view. His soul rotted in self-pity, his mind full of drink: it's sad to watch someone fall so perilously far short of the person they could be. Sad for him. I step over the body and move on with amazing alacrity.
Perhaps expecting someone to "care", to "understand", is simply too much and too gooey a goal to really understand in physicality should it arrive at the door. What does this understanding look like? What does it sound like? What does it ACT like? Perhaps it's a gift one only gives yet truly releases the strings. Maybe the math on feeling "known" will never balance out. It's fruitless effort on an impossible equation. I look around my full life and don't know what it is I want or somehow think I need. There's nothing, really, nothing I need. But the question of how can I just not hurt one more person with selfish behavior for one more day persists. I'd like to say that I would like someone to be good to. But is that, too, selfish? What spark of my own happiness am I expecting to come flying out of some man? Why am I here? The horns atop the tower blink red, warning planes and keeping a pace for all insomniacs of the city. What do I do here, god? How am I to be authentic, here, today?
Roll over and watch him sleep, face relaxed in an unconscious lack of expression. It's the same face I see as he answers the door or cleans up after me when I spill precious chocolate milk in the kitchen. He wears only his own face and there's no denying it's simply beautiful. He shuffles slightly, perhaps sensing my regard from the distance of his dream. Settling back in, his purring returns. I hate to admit it. It will feed right into that big Italian ego, but he really is the best lover. I doubt the oracle telling me to 'go ahead with this' every day, but when has certainty ever been a guarantee? Never.
I retrieved the cracked offerings of my affection from him who tossed them back so carelessly. And I'm fine. It was mine to keep all the time & I'm certainly not less anything in the attempt. Maybe I try too hard to give away that which I should be keeping.
As we part in the morning, wishing each other good day with a peck, it hits me just what I'm seeking. I want him to tell me outright, in that very moment, that he wants me to see me back as soon as possible, wants to call me, looks forward to seeing me again. I'm just looking for a welcome. Just another person hoping their heart doesn't die homeless. So that's what it is.
Unusually warm air kisses my face as I step out into a sun drenched morning. Saunter down the street like a soft jazz song plucked on a Les Paul. Despite all my thinking, who couldn't smile, now?
I never know how to figure these out. I can lie here suspecting that this man just won't understand certain parts of me. But roll the tape back even one month to a man I thought did understand. Re-hear his talk; the sweet and understanding language. Hold his subsequent behavior up to the light and observe what hideous revelation of character eventually brought into view. His soul rotted in self-pity, his mind full of drink: it's sad to watch someone fall so perilously far short of the person they could be. Sad for him. I step over the body and move on with amazing alacrity.
Perhaps expecting someone to "care", to "understand", is simply too much and too gooey a goal to really understand in physicality should it arrive at the door. What does this understanding look like? What does it sound like? What does it ACT like? Perhaps it's a gift one only gives yet truly releases the strings. Maybe the math on feeling "known" will never balance out. It's fruitless effort on an impossible equation. I look around my full life and don't know what it is I want or somehow think I need. There's nothing, really, nothing I need. But the question of how can I just not hurt one more person with selfish behavior for one more day persists. I'd like to say that I would like someone to be good to. But is that, too, selfish? What spark of my own happiness am I expecting to come flying out of some man? Why am I here? The horns atop the tower blink red, warning planes and keeping a pace for all insomniacs of the city. What do I do here, god? How am I to be authentic, here, today?
Roll over and watch him sleep, face relaxed in an unconscious lack of expression. It's the same face I see as he answers the door or cleans up after me when I spill precious chocolate milk in the kitchen. He wears only his own face and there's no denying it's simply beautiful. He shuffles slightly, perhaps sensing my regard from the distance of his dream. Settling back in, his purring returns. I hate to admit it. It will feed right into that big Italian ego, but he really is the best lover. I doubt the oracle telling me to 'go ahead with this' every day, but when has certainty ever been a guarantee? Never.
I retrieved the cracked offerings of my affection from him who tossed them back so carelessly. And I'm fine. It was mine to keep all the time & I'm certainly not less anything in the attempt. Maybe I try too hard to give away that which I should be keeping.
As we part in the morning, wishing each other good day with a peck, it hits me just what I'm seeking. I want him to tell me outright, in that very moment, that he wants me to see me back as soon as possible, wants to call me, looks forward to seeing me again. I'm just looking for a welcome. Just another person hoping their heart doesn't die homeless. So that's what it is.
Unusually warm air kisses my face as I step out into a sun drenched morning. Saunter down the street like a soft jazz song plucked on a Les Paul. Despite all my thinking, who couldn't smile, now?
Monday, February 9, 2009
Mi dispiace
"Can I make a request?"
"Sure...."
"Can you wear nice shoes? A skirt would be nice, but can you wear nice shoes?"
What?! My comfy sneakers and earth shoes aren't so appealing? Those birkenstocks I wore on Saturday didn't turn him on? I know where it's coming from. He's trying to say "I like you to look sexy... and you mostly do... but you're missing a spot" I know I've worn rather overly comfortable shoes each time I've been near him - mostly because those are the shoes that won't make me too tall. I don't like to feel big. Well, if he wants to see what happens when I turn on the power of tower... god help him. But I'm no fashion maven and suddenly every pair of shoes in my closet falls into question. Are you a 'nice' shoe? I have one pair of Italian leather boots...maybe those...? What will go with those? what skirt? Darn it! It's never just about the shoes!
It says something when the first words you make the attempt to learn in your new lover's native language are "I'm sorry". Mi dispiace. Even worse that I figure how to get the pronunciation right from a Madonna song.
The fun might wear off at some unknown point and then we're two people wondering what we're doing together and what happens, exactly, when we're apart. Does she see other people? Is he still on the prowl? At this point in life you'd think I'd be better at pushing these questions early. But this isn't about knowing - I don't want to know shit. It's about forgetting. It's about forgetting those people who've kicked us both to the curb in favor of wallowing in their own drama and self pity. Those people made the mistake of not reciprocating such freely offered adoration. It's about not looking over our shoulder at the world collapsing outside. We've picked up what's left of our souls and come to this place 47 floors up to watch the sun rise over the lake. Here on this island we're happy and have hope that pleasure can outlast erosion.
"Sure...."
"Can you wear nice shoes? A skirt would be nice, but can you wear nice shoes?"
What?! My comfy sneakers and earth shoes aren't so appealing? Those birkenstocks I wore on Saturday didn't turn him on? I know where it's coming from. He's trying to say "I like you to look sexy... and you mostly do... but you're missing a spot" I know I've worn rather overly comfortable shoes each time I've been near him - mostly because those are the shoes that won't make me too tall. I don't like to feel big. Well, if he wants to see what happens when I turn on the power of tower... god help him. But I'm no fashion maven and suddenly every pair of shoes in my closet falls into question. Are you a 'nice' shoe? I have one pair of Italian leather boots...maybe those...? What will go with those? what skirt? Darn it! It's never just about the shoes!
It says something when the first words you make the attempt to learn in your new lover's native language are "I'm sorry". Mi dispiace. Even worse that I figure how to get the pronunciation right from a Madonna song.
The fun might wear off at some unknown point and then we're two people wondering what we're doing together and what happens, exactly, when we're apart. Does she see other people? Is he still on the prowl? At this point in life you'd think I'd be better at pushing these questions early. But this isn't about knowing - I don't want to know shit. It's about forgetting. It's about forgetting those people who've kicked us both to the curb in favor of wallowing in their own drama and self pity. Those people made the mistake of not reciprocating such freely offered adoration. It's about not looking over our shoulder at the world collapsing outside. We've picked up what's left of our souls and come to this place 47 floors up to watch the sun rise over the lake. Here on this island we're happy and have hope that pleasure can outlast erosion.
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