Fitting. No answers yet, precocious little self.
I told you to be patient/ I told you to be fine/ I told you to be balanced/ I told you to be kind/ Now all your love is wasted?/ Then who the hell was I?/ Now I'm breaking at the britches/ And at the end of all your lines/ Who will love you?/ Who will fight?/ Who will fall far behind?I feel your hurt, I think it hums between us or hovers like breath. Osmosis between our bodies, I suppose, permeable brief monuments that they are. How many things close to prayer have been whispered silently for you, earnestly, by this eternal skeptic! I'm amazed at how much pain this causes me; two calendar pages, a few handfuls of weeks, the first Wednesday of November - all just foreign-sounding words that aren't proportionate to what I feel for you. You're still all tore up, though, and need to make your own happiness before you can even begin to worry about anyone else's. What a sweet mess you are.
(A sliding glass door, a window, a door, a closet, four walls; the sunshine streaming through the curtain, the bookcases full of words that I sometimes understand, sometimes not, the bed where I sleep peacefully and dream imaginatively, and in the corner, an abundance of canvas, paint and wood where I express and create pieces of myself and my views on the world. )
I often wonder how it is that I came to be who I am, and not someone else in a less fortunate situation. Sometimes I feel that unavoidable white middle class Americana guilt, but more often than not I know that it is slightly irrelevant, that there are many far better off than I, loads far worse and just as many on par. It simply is and has always been the state of things. This was a tangent from what I was trying to say, hah - that I don't really think it's the location of your life, or the amount of goods you posess, but rather the outlook you have and the connections you create with people. I think this is stemming from the visit my family paid me yesterday - I was and still am reberverating with this happiness from seeing them, because it is such a rare occurance.
"If Christ had died in a hallway we might pray in hallways
or wear little golden hallways around our necks"
(I don't understand my ever more frequent ups and downs, but I won't question the ups when they're here)
Mama turned 53.
Christine dyed my hair blonde Saturday night. Picture me marigold-tressed on my keyboard typing, and laugh, because it's not fitting at all, this strawberry blonde state of mind in the midst of my recent dark wallowings.