Some days she paints and the mushy, watery pigments of nature blend in edges of mystery. Today, though, mother designs. In the pantone blue west a half moon glows as if stenciled on with a 20mm deckle. Schaedler precision rulers set the deep aqua lake apart from the neat gradient of encroaching dawn in a perfect horizontal line. Eastern sky could be called a "rainbow" but the mesh is more complicated. In the moving mix shades of grape juice, apricot jelly and strawberry candy present fleeting overtones. I can see the caption written out, in perfectly kerned Helvetica. "Dawn" - neatly punctuated at the end by a water pumping station resting on the horizon.
I was tardy for the iPod parade this morning, taping the feet up took a bit longer. After the last run I managed to rip all the skin off the top of my foot. Fuckin nice! Have to be more careful, now. Today the feet send back no messages of pain whatsoever. All systems are go.
"And so what? I am a rock star! I got my rock moves! And I don't need you!"
Out here the dark silhouettes of trees are fast becoming old fashioned. In an hour, charcoal shadows will seem so passé. Why, dark is so night time! Naked limbs expose brown clumps of abandoned birds' nests. I can hear the ticking in the trees. In each branch a countdown nears the zero point when green will explode on the earth. In some day to come we will be shocked with the sudden blessing of leaves.
"I'll be eaten by the worms, and weird fishes. Picked over by the worms, and weird fishes. Weird fishes..."
I look up at soccer hill, opting for the longer path around its circumference today. 8 runners use it to train; I see their black creature-ish silhouettes against the sky. They each go down the hill, then up, then down a different direction, then back up. Together at the top, then breaking into a chaos and then converging at the crest, they are a perfect swarm.
"It's all and illusion. There's too much confusion. I'll make you feel better..."
Rounding that bend which could hook me back north or feed me further south, I take in the perfectly crafted vantage point of Montrose Harbor. My feet yell "next stop: Belmont harbor!" But I look at the time and force them northward, promising that on Sunday we'll go for 10 miles. I promise! From this spot on this clear morning, I can see all the way to Navy Pier. "Navy Piers" he calls it. Silly Italian, he pluralizes everything. "Piers", "Cereals"...
"Something is going on at Navy Piers this weekend I thought maybe we could do that..." Later I get an SMS updating the suggestion to one of going to galleries - a genius stroke. Someone has been doing his homework. He's being awfully friendly; awfully kind and even, maybe, sweet. It's dawning on him that I don't need him, maybe. Maybe he's realizing that I can be pleasant company, after all. But, something has shifted. I'd love to trust the kindness, but I don't. I can't. We'll see how he acts once the green card issue gets resolved.
"I woke up this morning the sun shining brightly I put on my happy face..."
Dawn doesn't just happen at the horizon. The whole sky participates in sunrise. The west takes its cues from the refracting atmosphere and accepts the hug of long pink and purple arms, gently waking the whole dome. A gold glow above the horizon, an atmospheric revealing the hideout of angels, marks the location to watch. There, in moments, the thinnest pink line appears. Line grows into a mound like a bright pimple on the water. Soon, there she is. Blink and you see every step of the sunrise still framed in the retina burn of your eyes. Look at that, will you. Look at that color and drama and tell me it isn't natural for humans to adorn themselves and seek beauty.
Nature itself rolls the drum - such a showoff.
On the other side of me, the drive is starting to fill with southbound traffic. Off to markets and jobs, man rolls the dice - another day.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
pinch me
She sounded so excited on the phone yesterday, and I mean excited not in a good way. Like her world just got put on a merry go round and run in circles too fast after lunch. So I took her a little something this morning to brighten up the workspace. Get rid of that "twilight zone" feeling of watching all of the people and departments you work with the most get disappeared. She's the only one who would, here, and she refrains, from making a weight comment. Hiding half of me behind a counter helps. I don't like the comments. There's a subtle criticism to them, I think. Some small disapproval of the change. Oh but the change is coming. Just you weight.
I pinch myself. Hiding in the dressing room at the gym because I don't like being subjected to the nattering on of other women, I pinch and find the pockets which will be the target of next ten pounds. Outer thigh, not so bad. But inner thigh still has parenthenthetical adipose tissue. That must go. Arms don't suck, just need more muscle to shape them out. Inside of knees... how does one loose the inside of the knee fat? Belly, not so bad at all. But there's this persistent pocket, like a guffle of bread made out of fat, that rides on the back of my hip bones. It's neither butt fat, nor waist or hip it's just... back fat.
On a pig that would be called the "leaf lard". It's a persistent little storage depot, I can tell. Furthest back ancestors foraging across Africa would be proud. But 21st century woman gets a less positive judgment when the fat pocket puckers out from her side like an anatomical interloper during prayer twist pose. Well, you're next. I'll think of you every time I'm hungry enough to eat my fingers. With herbal laxatives, fiber supplements, protein powder and pickles for dinner, I'm coming for you, leaf fat. Leaf lard is supposed to be the highest quality. "Aren't you eating anything?" Why yes, I'm eating the best bit of fat on earth.
On line at Livestrong.com obsessing over which foods spiked my carb intake and how to classify my homemade chicken with no noodles soup. The system has popped me down to 1600 calories a day outside of tracked exercise which I don't enter until I go to bed so that it doesn't suddenly start telling me I can eat way more calories. I stay at least 200 below what they allot me, as a rule. Down too much too fast and I open myself up to bingeing. If there's nothing else I've done right in a day I've done hunger properly. There are charts where I can watch the graphs of what I eat and what I do and what I lose and the best part? No one is admonishing me. The computer just watches in mute anonymity. Thank you for the data, user "meatball".
Down just 15 lbs. from Jan 23. BMI at 22. Fuckin not enough! I remember that day. On that day I said 'no one will ever reject me again!' I'll never be not good enough again. It was all the fat's fault, that artificial layer of ick that is not part of the real me, I'm sure of it. No sir, from now on the ball is in MY court! She who is perfect gets to call the shots! Just another 20 lbs. to go. I fiddle with the numbers on the BMI chart. Well... 23. 23 pounds to go before the BMI raises official eyebrows. 23. How is that for symetry?
I pinch myself. Hiding in the dressing room at the gym because I don't like being subjected to the nattering on of other women, I pinch and find the pockets which will be the target of next ten pounds. Outer thigh, not so bad. But inner thigh still has parenthenthetical adipose tissue. That must go. Arms don't suck, just need more muscle to shape them out. Inside of knees... how does one loose the inside of the knee fat? Belly, not so bad at all. But there's this persistent pocket, like a guffle of bread made out of fat, that rides on the back of my hip bones. It's neither butt fat, nor waist or hip it's just... back fat.
On a pig that would be called the "leaf lard". It's a persistent little storage depot, I can tell. Furthest back ancestors foraging across Africa would be proud. But 21st century woman gets a less positive judgment when the fat pocket puckers out from her side like an anatomical interloper during prayer twist pose. Well, you're next. I'll think of you every time I'm hungry enough to eat my fingers. With herbal laxatives, fiber supplements, protein powder and pickles for dinner, I'm coming for you, leaf fat. Leaf lard is supposed to be the highest quality. "Aren't you eating anything?" Why yes, I'm eating the best bit of fat on earth.
On line at Livestrong.com obsessing over which foods spiked my carb intake and how to classify my homemade chicken with no noodles soup. The system has popped me down to 1600 calories a day outside of tracked exercise which I don't enter until I go to bed so that it doesn't suddenly start telling me I can eat way more calories. I stay at least 200 below what they allot me, as a rule. Down too much too fast and I open myself up to bingeing. If there's nothing else I've done right in a day I've done hunger properly. There are charts where I can watch the graphs of what I eat and what I do and what I lose and the best part? No one is admonishing me. The computer just watches in mute anonymity. Thank you for the data, user "meatball".
Down just 15 lbs. from Jan 23. BMI at 22. Fuckin not enough! I remember that day. On that day I said 'no one will ever reject me again!' I'll never be not good enough again. It was all the fat's fault, that artificial layer of ick that is not part of the real me, I'm sure of it. No sir, from now on the ball is in MY court! She who is perfect gets to call the shots! Just another 20 lbs. to go. I fiddle with the numbers on the BMI chart. Well... 23. 23 pounds to go before the BMI raises official eyebrows. 23. How is that for symetry?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
I'm going to live today
5:55 am. On with sneakers. On with iPod. Out the door. There's more what's awake at this hour than a normal person would believe. But somewhere folks are already at work or assembling for a 6 am aerobics class. The day to come is just a faint amber glow to the east of an ink blue sky.
Descending in the west, the ancient overseer glows, still, though her eye is half shut from a month's tiring work. The path is dry as there is no more snow left to melt. Already one can feel it. This will be a good day.
My belly complains. 40g of prunes and 2 tsp. of honey didn't shut it up at all. They compound with yesterday's total intake of 1200 calories to mock my effort. But just that much sugar is turning the trick & I hit a stride with pure octane pumping the engine. Feet go, legs leap, no wall in sight.
I weighed in at 146 lbs. at 5:15 am. I checked. That's down 15 lbs. from January 23. People keep asking if I'm loosing weight and I retort with a surprised "no!". Why it's so impolite to comment about weight - no one would say shit if I were a man! But the numbers don't lie - not like I do. After the weigh in I pulled my thinspiration out of hiding and compared again. Down 15 lbs. and still there is a bit of a tire around the middle! Of all things my tits get smaller! But for now I take the hunger in stride. That pain in the gut is a comfort, telling me I'm still alive - as does the twinge on my feet from the tape which holds them together.
The glow brightens. The lesser light bows down as a rosy stain spreads across the big bowl of sky. Spaceship Earth is turning. I can feel it - slightly different moment by moment under each foot fall. Cue dawn.
Maybe this morning I'll run over the hill between the soccer fields. From Cahokia to Giza, humans have pulled higher vantage points from the flat earth, seeking mountaintop experiences where nature provided none. Some theorize this stems from a common spirituality or a synchronicity. Perhaps it's just the instinct brain expressing a vestige from when our souls were bird soul. We go up because we must leap. We leap, once knowing but now just hoping, that a thermal will catch our frail selves and buoy us on.
"I wanted to take you out to dinner. Not well planned, I know. I wanted to do something nice together other than just me relieve stress at you..."
'Relieve stress'. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? What's so terrible about stress relief? But he's right. I'd rather just talk, sometimes. Sometimes I wish breakfast together lasted longer. He has been awfully nice lately. Knit one eyebrow. He also still needs that green card. But then, he must know I suspect him of being up to something. Knit one eyebrow, pearl two. Maybe he wants to feel different about himself? Maybe being nice is his way of stepping away gently? No idea. Knit two eyebrows, pearl one. I'd still love to put him in my pocket and protect him forever. But I know what happens next. It's time to pull back the curtain, show him who I really am... and wait to see if he stays or runs.
I make myself run until the flat top of the hill levels out. Around me city towers encircle like a glittery Stonehenge. Brightly lit birds, on wings of American and United, fly off to the east. It is a good day to wear green and have a holiday. It is a good day to heal. I look over the morning rituals of other humans subjecting themselves to this early exercise and glory. Some run in tandem, others in circles. Some walk with arms pumping while others skirt along on two wheels. I stretch.
And then, through an invisible gap in the horizon's blue curtain, the sun steps through. First, she demurs with an artsy smile. Then in red roaring glory that arrests the eye, she makes the heavenly demand for pause. This is the day. I'm going to live today.
Descending in the west, the ancient overseer glows, still, though her eye is half shut from a month's tiring work. The path is dry as there is no more snow left to melt. Already one can feel it. This will be a good day.
My belly complains. 40g of prunes and 2 tsp. of honey didn't shut it up at all. They compound with yesterday's total intake of 1200 calories to mock my effort. But just that much sugar is turning the trick & I hit a stride with pure octane pumping the engine. Feet go, legs leap, no wall in sight.
I weighed in at 146 lbs. at 5:15 am. I checked. That's down 15 lbs. from January 23. People keep asking if I'm loosing weight and I retort with a surprised "no!". Why it's so impolite to comment about weight - no one would say shit if I were a man! But the numbers don't lie - not like I do. After the weigh in I pulled my thinspiration out of hiding and compared again. Down 15 lbs. and still there is a bit of a tire around the middle! Of all things my tits get smaller! But for now I take the hunger in stride. That pain in the gut is a comfort, telling me I'm still alive - as does the twinge on my feet from the tape which holds them together.
The glow brightens. The lesser light bows down as a rosy stain spreads across the big bowl of sky. Spaceship Earth is turning. I can feel it - slightly different moment by moment under each foot fall. Cue dawn.
Maybe this morning I'll run over the hill between the soccer fields. From Cahokia to Giza, humans have pulled higher vantage points from the flat earth, seeking mountaintop experiences where nature provided none. Some theorize this stems from a common spirituality or a synchronicity. Perhaps it's just the instinct brain expressing a vestige from when our souls were bird soul. We go up because we must leap. We leap, once knowing but now just hoping, that a thermal will catch our frail selves and buoy us on.
"I wanted to take you out to dinner. Not well planned, I know. I wanted to do something nice together other than just me relieve stress at you..."
'Relieve stress'. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? What's so terrible about stress relief? But he's right. I'd rather just talk, sometimes. Sometimes I wish breakfast together lasted longer. He has been awfully nice lately. Knit one eyebrow. He also still needs that green card. But then, he must know I suspect him of being up to something. Knit one eyebrow, pearl two. Maybe he wants to feel different about himself? Maybe being nice is his way of stepping away gently? No idea. Knit two eyebrows, pearl one. I'd still love to put him in my pocket and protect him forever. But I know what happens next. It's time to pull back the curtain, show him who I really am... and wait to see if he stays or runs.
I make myself run until the flat top of the hill levels out. Around me city towers encircle like a glittery Stonehenge. Brightly lit birds, on wings of American and United, fly off to the east. It is a good day to wear green and have a holiday. It is a good day to heal. I look over the morning rituals of other humans subjecting themselves to this early exercise and glory. Some run in tandem, others in circles. Some walk with arms pumping while others skirt along on two wheels. I stretch.
And then, through an invisible gap in the horizon's blue curtain, the sun steps through. First, she demurs with an artsy smile. Then in red roaring glory that arrests the eye, she makes the heavenly demand for pause. This is the day. I'm going to live today.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
sketch of a day
Inky sky in the frigid morning gives way to slate grey and snow. Soon it will be spring, but not yet. Today, still, the wind blasts me in the face like a power drill forcing its way into every pore. Someone leaves their takeout on a post box and it has frozen faster than a hungry mouth could find it. The barker selling papers on the corner makes a "wooooooo wooooo" song that he does when the wind whips up real cold. Sometimes, on particularly warm mornings, he's out there singing a tune at 7 am, but he pipes down when someone gets close. I've started saying "good morning" when I go by, even though he seems to ignore me.
I walk into the gym, the same song comes through the speakers as was playing when I walked out yesterday morning. In the locker room I run into the "running granny" as I call her. She's in her 60's, runs marathons, skinny as a bird. Today I'm a bit earlier and she's just stepped out of the shower. Perhaps I've surprised her but we look at each other for a long second. Hair wrapped in a towel, the bones of her face seem to jut out further and I see how dark and sunken are her eyes. Is that where I'm heading by going on 5 hrs of sleep a night?
That same PM at work has been offering me beers for over a year now. Finally just tell him "allergic...sorry". Maybe the allergy theory of alcoholism is bunk, but I happen to like it and have repurposed it handily to circumnavigate events I don't wish to attend. Company lunch at a Chinese restaurant. I could do that, consume almost 1000 empty calories and spend 2 hours in awkward conversation not working - or I could just beg out thanks to an MSG allergy. Pizza? Gluten intolerant!My rarified system can only tolerate the finest sashimi and European chocolate!
Now if only I could beg off being allergic to silliness and stupidity. It still chaps my hide, that person who seemed so shocked at my suggesting they take the CTA."I'm from Texas! We don't have trains there!" Yet you've lived in a city WITH trains for long enough to get a medical degree. I moved from a tiny town of 900 to New York City in 1988 and after 5 minutes with a map - I spoke 'public transit'. Ok ok, drop it.
It's light out at 6, but sooner or later the sun must slide under the bend in the Earth. Night like a stain that won't go away. Dark that one has to wipe out of your eyes upon finally arriving home.
I walk into the gym, the same song comes through the speakers as was playing when I walked out yesterday morning. In the locker room I run into the "running granny" as I call her. She's in her 60's, runs marathons, skinny as a bird. Today I'm a bit earlier and she's just stepped out of the shower. Perhaps I've surprised her but we look at each other for a long second. Hair wrapped in a towel, the bones of her face seem to jut out further and I see how dark and sunken are her eyes. Is that where I'm heading by going on 5 hrs of sleep a night?
That same PM at work has been offering me beers for over a year now. Finally just tell him "allergic...sorry". Maybe the allergy theory of alcoholism is bunk, but I happen to like it and have repurposed it handily to circumnavigate events I don't wish to attend. Company lunch at a Chinese restaurant. I could do that, consume almost 1000 empty calories and spend 2 hours in awkward conversation not working - or I could just beg out thanks to an MSG allergy. Pizza? Gluten intolerant!My rarified system can only tolerate the finest sashimi and European chocolate!
Now if only I could beg off being allergic to silliness and stupidity. It still chaps my hide, that person who seemed so shocked at my suggesting they take the CTA."I'm from Texas! We don't have trains there!" Yet you've lived in a city WITH trains for long enough to get a medical degree. I moved from a tiny town of 900 to New York City in 1988 and after 5 minutes with a map - I spoke 'public transit'. Ok ok, drop it.
It's light out at 6, but sooner or later the sun must slide under the bend in the Earth. Night like a stain that won't go away. Dark that one has to wipe out of your eyes upon finally arriving home.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
1300: Over the moon
Another abnormally warm late winter day. Waxing gibbous overhead reaches its zenith in the early evening sky as I turn onto the lakeside path for a run. Remnants of melted snows catch her like many tiny mirrors and I step over the moon.
The lights on top of the Hancock have gone back to white with the passing of Valentine's day. It's like a big fake moon hanging over the city. And at 11pm, the moon shuts off. In the darkness I hear the purring next to me. Man - cat sleeps happy.
At Foster beach I take the unpaved, unlit path next to the water. In the eastern sky approaching stars move and weave as they come in for a landing at O'Hare. Our conversation keeps running through my head. His constant worry is his green card. While we watch the telly a birth control commercial comes on and I hear myself making the comment about how I hate the pill - how it felt like having the steering wheel to one's brain stolen by an angry monkey.
Then, he says it. "If you got pregnant I could get my green card."
"Neither of us needs that mess."
"But I could get my green card!"
"You run that idea past your momma, see what she says." Me, I know what mine would say. I know what she'd do and how she'd feel. It's the wrong reason. Of all the ways to fall of the horse of independence that would be the worst. What if he tricks me and sabotages the birth control?
The melt off has left puddles in the pathway which do not refreeze now that night has come. I'm hitting the wall a little early and my legs feel weak and light. Still, I step over the moon.
It's tempting, though, if for no other reason than it's nice to have the brief illusion of being wanted. In the early morning, before the sun has arisen, his form covered with soft skin finds me. His arms feel good. His back feels good. His head rubbing against my neck feels good. His cock feels good. Afterwards we both lay silent, playing possum, when I hear the whisper.
"You awake?"
"yes"
"Tell me, what makes me such an irrisistable lover?"
"Hm. Let me think about it."
"Ok, talk to you later."
"Ok, I'm just going to go to sleep and take over the whole bed now. That's my German half that does that!"
I roll over to fall asleep. The smell of his sweat is on my skin. I love it and feel sorry to have to wash it off in the morning. I don't know what it is that makes him irresistable. He's like catnip.
The wind along the lake is terrific. It pushes me backwards and threatens to tear the hat off my head. I turn back and finally hit a groove. In the dark the puddles collect her silvery light. I know she's high over my head, and leaping over water, I step over the moon.
Can I trust his being kind? Now that the idea is out there, that the green eyed lady could double as a green card lady, how do I know that the friendliness is genuine? He wants something. But then, we all want something and pose hard to the side that will get us what we want. He won't be content to be my hostage for long. In the morning I come to the end of the cereal. Do I buy more cereal or stop coming over?
By the elevator I grab his chin to kiss him goodbye. "oh, your question..." He seems a bit baffled that I would answer it there! "I need to do some more experimenting!"
The walkway to my front door is terrific for collecting water and so her reflection lights my path like a celestial guide. Coming home to independence, to strength, to me, I step over the moon.
The lights on top of the Hancock have gone back to white with the passing of Valentine's day. It's like a big fake moon hanging over the city. And at 11pm, the moon shuts off. In the darkness I hear the purring next to me. Man - cat sleeps happy.
At Foster beach I take the unpaved, unlit path next to the water. In the eastern sky approaching stars move and weave as they come in for a landing at O'Hare. Our conversation keeps running through my head. His constant worry is his green card. While we watch the telly a birth control commercial comes on and I hear myself making the comment about how I hate the pill - how it felt like having the steering wheel to one's brain stolen by an angry monkey.
Then, he says it. "If you got pregnant I could get my green card."
"Neither of us needs that mess."
"But I could get my green card!"
"You run that idea past your momma, see what she says." Me, I know what mine would say. I know what she'd do and how she'd feel. It's the wrong reason. Of all the ways to fall of the horse of independence that would be the worst. What if he tricks me and sabotages the birth control?
The melt off has left puddles in the pathway which do not refreeze now that night has come. I'm hitting the wall a little early and my legs feel weak and light. Still, I step over the moon.
It's tempting, though, if for no other reason than it's nice to have the brief illusion of being wanted. In the early morning, before the sun has arisen, his form covered with soft skin finds me. His arms feel good. His back feels good. His head rubbing against my neck feels good. His cock feels good. Afterwards we both lay silent, playing possum, when I hear the whisper.
"You awake?"
"yes"
"Tell me, what makes me such an irrisistable lover?"
"Hm. Let me think about it."
"Ok, talk to you later."
"Ok, I'm just going to go to sleep and take over the whole bed now. That's my German half that does that!"
I roll over to fall asleep. The smell of his sweat is on my skin. I love it and feel sorry to have to wash it off in the morning. I don't know what it is that makes him irresistable. He's like catnip.
The wind along the lake is terrific. It pushes me backwards and threatens to tear the hat off my head. I turn back and finally hit a groove. In the dark the puddles collect her silvery light. I know she's high over my head, and leaping over water, I step over the moon.
Can I trust his being kind? Now that the idea is out there, that the green eyed lady could double as a green card lady, how do I know that the friendliness is genuine? He wants something. But then, we all want something and pose hard to the side that will get us what we want. He won't be content to be my hostage for long. In the morning I come to the end of the cereal. Do I buy more cereal or stop coming over?
By the elevator I grab his chin to kiss him goodbye. "oh, your question..." He seems a bit baffled that I would answer it there! "I need to do some more experimenting!"
The walkway to my front door is terrific for collecting water and so her reflection lights my path like a celestial guide. Coming home to independence, to strength, to me, I step over the moon.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
When the cereal runs out
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?
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?
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.
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