That's what Maine's license plate declares it to be, and for me it is, so why not?
Ok, this is just a "clear the air of icky posts" post, so let's see what I have in the vault...
here's a writing exercise I did a little while ago...not sure where I was going with it, but maybe you'll have some ideas--
“You’re trying too hard.” She always said things like that in a tone of voice that got under her sister’s skin so smoothly it was like a sliver. She didn’t want other people to notice her, she just wanted to fit in.
There weren’t many days when she really liked how she looked and then if there were boys around it was even worse.
The School was only for girls, but there was an all-boys school nearby and there were boys always in and out of their buildings, a new approach to the segregation thing—allowing open access in order to keep them from being too mysterious to each other and consequently causing urgent meetings in the dark of night. It worked. Sort of. There were still forbidden liaisons, but the overall student body seemed much more focused on their studies than they could have been.
It was on one of those dark nights—are there often very bright nights?—and during one of those forbidden liaisons that Sydney realized something very important about herself. It startled her, as the thought formed itself into clear words in the front of her mind. She was in the middle of pushing Brent’s hands away from her zipper for the third time that night and wondering if he was as good of a kisser as his roommate looked like he would be when she sat back from him and blinked hard. She couldn’t speak for a moment because the thought was shouting at her from within and she had to pay very close attention to make sure she understood. She had never even given consideration to this before, having been raised on the notion that she would live the same life as her mother, and all the other women in their posh, Belmont neighborhood. She smiled as the realization sunk in, and then a quick giggle burst out of her as the giddiness of this new truth became her sole focus. Brent looked at her strangely and probably said something, but she didn’t hear him. She was already miles away in her mind, and was walking away with her body. She wouldn’t be living the life of her mother and all her Country Club friends. She would rock their worlds. She broke into a run, laughing into the night, her legs, long and lean, propelled her forward.
The next morning Sydney sat in the mahogany and marble dining room playing with her food as her roommate rambled on. Her elation from last night’s great epiphany had receded to a dull glow, but she was still as determined as ever to make the changes necessary to follow this new path. She stood up while Heddie was still talking and dumped her nibbled-at food down the chute.
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And here's another:
Night swimming. That summer was full of water, but most of our swimming was done at night. Days were for kayaking, and working. Nights were soft with humidity, holding the day’s heat like a sponge. I can almost feel the heaviness of the air, dense and warm, but with a ribbon of coolness. We didn’t know anyone with a sailboat that summer, but it didn’t matter. The ocean was more for looking at, anyway. It was like we knew we were going to be leaving again soon and the ocean was too big to become entirely known to us in just one summer, so we left it to play the role of the background, the setting. The lakes and streams were more tangible, more finite. We started with the one running down Mt. Battie and worked our way through the rest in an unplanned pattern—Mirror Lake, then Megunticook, the Keag River, then Chickawaukee. No rhyme, no reason. But somehow we covered them all. Our almost-matching Subarus ending the summer with almost-matching scratches from so much loading and unloading of our not-even-remotely-matching kayaks. We embarked on that summer as friends, and wended our way toward a deeper connection.
Ha. Was there ever any doubt? The procedure thingy went well, but last night was kind of a bitch. I spent the ENTIRE night sitting on the toilet, peeing every 3-4 minutes. Every time I stood up I was in pain, and lying in my bed made it hurt--and made me need to pee worse! I tried eating something around 2 am, but that didn't exactly work out. I puked it right back up, which was probaby a good thing, since it was ice cream. Hey! My throat was (and still is) killing me. It felt so good going down, and not that bad coming up. Heh. So...how's your dinner...? Sorry!!! I have no filter, what can I say?
So finally around 4:30 I was able to lie in bed comfortably for long enough to doze off for 30 minutes or so at a time, waking to pee. I am truly the Pee Queen... which is way less sexy than the Princess and the Pea, but somehow I manage!
I am now feeling much more like myself and I think I owe Perc0cet dinner. (even if it didn't put out until the 4th dose. What the fuck??)
Ok, I'm kind of a rambling, incoherant(er than usual) mess, so I think I'm going to go make lists of what to take on the grand Maine Adventure!! Oh, and to answer Orange's question: no, I will not be going cold turkey on the blogging while I'm gone. I never do, so why start now? :) I can't believe I just wrote a smiley face in a post... oh well. The point is, I'm sure I'll be popping in for updates now and then, and it's only ten days so you'll hardly even miss me!
Also, I love my husband dearly and I hope this trip brings us back together. I want us both to be happy, preferably together.
I am glad I've aired my dirty laundry, but I wish I had waited until things were better resolved to do so.
Or is that Wizzer...? Like...a doctor of wizz, wizz being pee... Ha. I'm sooooo funny.
Today is the day for the procedures, is what I'm saying. They'll be poking and prodding my insides for a couple of hours so who could really ask for more?? I'm sure it'll all go just swimmingly (another urology metaphor??) and I'll tell you all the gory details tomorrow. Or at least recount the groovy hallucinations I have from the anesthesia. Woo hooooo! So far all I have is: I ate a raspberry by mistake while I was out in the garden... oops.
Here's a little song I wrote, you might want to sing it note for note--
Only, less song, more story. It's the one I submitted for the Iron Pen 24-hour writing competition. If I win, I get to read it in front of an audience. Suh-weet! I doubt I'll win. I wrote it in about 30 minutes and didn't even edit it before printing it and rushing to turn it in... Hey, I'm a minimalist, what can I say? hee...
Bee Charmer
I don’t know why I told them I was a bee charmer. I have always hated putting on airs and tend to wear them like a child in her father’s Sunday shoes. But the truth was, whenever a stinging creature got in the house, I could let it walk onto my outstretched hand and carry it outside. I never got stung by them. I liked to think it was because they could sense how much I wanted to fly, but it was probably because I used soft movements and didn’t bear pollen. But I did—I told them I was a bee charmer, and so that is how we ended up in the clearing on that thickly hot day.
We ran at first—through the woods behind my house, over moss carpeted rocks and under low-hanging pine branches. The ferns tickled our bare ankles and calves, and we were exhilarated for a few moments. But then the heat found us, slipping down through the shadows of the trees and winding around our chests, creeping up our necks. We slowed to a jog, then a walk, all of us panting. The clearing was still far off, much closer to Rt. 73, which paced the river on its race to the ocean than to Westbrook Street where my house was. We pressed forward, through trees and brush that kept stacking up in front of us, blocking the way.
We didn’t talk much as we walked, and the mantle of a Dare settled over us. It hadn’t been issued as a dare, but I knew that if I was able to reach into that beehive and retrieve a golden, dripping honeycomb, I would be respected and admired like no other. I would be the queen of this little hive of bees in my neighborhood. When we burst out of the darkness of the forest, the sun was blinding and we tripped over each other as we found our pace again. We walked to the giant tree at the far end of that wide, smooth field. It was remarkably unhilly, for such a rolling, rambling place as this, and the flatness made the tree seem larger. The buzzing grew as we approached, reaching out for us. The hive hung heavily from a branch I could almost reach, and the air hung heavily from the bottoms of the summer-scorched sky.
When we stood in the shadow of the tree I turned to face them.
“I am a bee charmer.”
They just looked at me, unimpressed, anxious about the possibility of getting stung. The tree’s trunk was wider than my stretched-out arms, and the lowest branch was too high to help me climb. I felt a thrill of getting-out-of-it, but then one of the older boys offered me a leg up. His ragged red hair and his scrawny arms gave him the look of a lost scare crow, as he stumbled toward manhood. I shrugged and stepped up, onto his offered thigh.
They all held their breath as I pressed my fingers into the opening on the large grayish mass. The buzzing was muffled with my hand there and the silence was as heavy as the heat.
I was chanting to myself, “The bees love me, the bees love me,” and when I felt my fingers curl around a section of honeycomb, I pulled it loose, withdrew my arm and leapt off the boy’s leg in one fluid moment. I was running for the forest again before the other kids even blinked.
Most of them got at least one sting, but I got none. The honey was sweeter and stickier than any other honey I’d ever seen. I licked every drop of it from the crooked section of comb and placed the empty piece in my window to dry. I was right. I am a bee charmer.
I for one, plan to make breakfast in bed for the most important father in my life. And then who knows. Maybe he'll go golfing. We got him a telescope and hopefully he won't read this...
Today we painted the hallway and stairs which lead from the basement to the main floor. This was officially the first house painting I have ever done, and I have to say it was pretty damn fun. I am glad it was fun because we have a lot more painting to do before selling the house...
There are many changes on the horizon. My roller coaster has been on speed lately and I think it's about time for things to level out. I am ready to face the new world before me.
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Because yesterday's post was enough to make MY nuts shrivel--
(no, I don't have nuts...) Here is a reposting of the pictures that make ME smile--
This angle makes my forehead look a bit long, but hey, that gives me an idea for the next time I take nude photos of a man...
The semi-retired, but as perky as ever GIRLS:
My only complaint is that I wish they were longer, but I do so love their shape--
Also. There were hot teenage boys at the pool today. Older teens--tattoos and earrings... I found myself distracted by the youth dripping off them like chlorinated water from smooth pecs... ahem. ...huh...?
So I started a story yesterday, but I'm realizing that I truly have capped myself at 350 words. I noticed it when I started writing for the newspaper-- editor wanted 500 word articles, but they always seemed to be 350, the last 150 was forced. I keep writing flash fiction of 350 words and my theory is that my posts are all around the 350 word mark, so my mind has just acclimated to that length. So...... I need to force myself beyond that barrier repeatedly until it becomes more comfortable.
If I remember to follow through, I may just continue expanding this little starter piece. I have added to it twice now, and it's almost a thousand words...I think it has potential, if I could just slow down and show instead of tell...
“Am I just crazy here, cuz I feel like I’m losing my goddamned mind!” She spoke the words into the receiver of the phone, a shaking hand tapping ash into a non-existent ash tray.
“You’re not crazy, Luce.” He sighed on the other end of the line. “We’ll figure this out.”
Lucy took another drag from the eighth cigarette she had ever smoked, from the pack she had purchased two hours previous and stared at the wall of her home, at once familiar and alien.
He tried to break the tension by remarking again on how odd it was to hear her smoking, but his attempt at a joke fell flat, coming out more like an accusation. Either way, it got no response. Long moments passed, the international toll piling up on his end of the phone call as unheeded as the Surgeon General’s warning.
“Eric.”
Silence.
“Ok, so here’s what I think,” she had a spark of life in her voice for the first time in weeks, so on the other side of the line, on the other side of the world, Eric sat up and held the phone a little tighter, almost holding his breath.
“We need more information, right? I mean, we know this guy has been following me for a long time, but who is he? I know, I know. We’ve asked that question a thousand times, but what I mean is, let’s figure out a way to get him to tell us. We’re smart, right??” She laughed a little, her sleeplessness almost pushing her into hysterical laughter. “We can trick him.”
“I don’t know, Lucy. Let’s sleep on it. Well, you sleep on it. I’m going to go to work now, it is next Wednesday here, after all.” She could picture his smile as he made their same old joke about living on different continents.
“Yeah. Sleep. You think; I’ll sleep.”
When she finally laid the cordless phone back in its charging station she looked at the half-empty pack of cigarettes and the mess she had made there before double-checking all the locks on all the doors, and making sure the blinds were tightly closed.
This crazy stalker had made her a prisoner in her own home, and it was starting to wear on her.
“Hey, ‘John Doe’! Fuck YOU!” She shouted to her empty house. She felt his presence like a shadow, always there. As the echo faded, the skin on the back of her neck stood up. Realization struck her, and she said the name again, the name he used to sign his love notes, his hate notes, his suicide notes. One a day for 6 months.
“John.” She smiled at herself for being so slow to realize the connection. “You do know me, don’t you, freak?”
There were four of them. Four men named John that she knew that year. One she slept with, one she went on a couple of dates with, one she watched blossom from gawky Mormon teen into earnest, contact lens-wearing manager, and one that she welcomed a little too enthusiastically on his visit with her roommate, his sister. It could be any of them, really. And a fifth if you counted the guy who went by the name of “Lu”, but whose driver’s license said “Jon”. He had disappeared years ago, and she felt she knew his roommate better, the one who collected snakes.
So. John G. That cat was the likeliest candidate, making him by default the least likely. Too obvious. His clear, pale skin, his horrible teeth, and that giant case of chef’s knives he always brought to work. He was a chef, but it still felt out of place. He took her to a ballet, even though he knew she was dating the teenage cook from the night shift. He knew she deserved better even if she didn’t.
And then there was John A. That sweet, sweet, kid. It could be him, too. When he traded his coke-bottle glasses for contacts and got a real haircut, she did start to see him as a possible possibility, but no. Still too sweet. He had definitely been in love with her. She knew it, but he was too good, too sweet and fresh and innocent—and she needed to drink down her share of bad boys first. She almost wanted to tell him that, apologetically, “I just need to get these wild boys out of my system first, and then we can get married and be sweet together!” But…how does one really say such a thing? And so she didn’t. His uncles were polygamists, and his sister looked like Laura Ingalls Wilder. He was so earnest but still just a little off. He could have been further off than she noticed back then, and it could be him.
And then…oh, Jon L! That one. He would have charmed her if she hadn’t seen it coming. But whenever she sees it coming she sidesteps charm, because it’s only used as a weapon. His dark eyes, his "vintage" Camaro (read: falling apart, but sexy anyway) and his love of words. She could still see him crouched on the greasy floor by the grill, sobbing. She knew he was still drunk from the night before, she believed him when he said his tears were for the death of a relationship. She even believed him when he said he wasn't yet 21 and that he would let her drive his car for a case of beer. All she wanted was to touch his sculpted cheeks and feel his long hair on her skin. And that was all she got.
I am sitting in the doctor's office waiting for them to cram something up my PEEHOLE to look inside my bladder. You are jealous, I know.
Update (which you should skip if you hate it when your grandmother talks about her icky bodily functions): I am now home. And that was way less fun than it sounds. They told me it's about the same as a speculum on the discomfort scale, only they forgot to mention that if your urethra is inflamed then it hurts like hell. Or like "fuck"--which is the word I said loud enough for the people in the waiting room to hear. But, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself, cuz I didn't find out about the inflamation until later. BAH. And then they filled my bladder with water to see how big it is. It's as small as I thought, as it turns out. Nothin' like having someone shoving stuff up your urethra with a bladder so full you'd use the men's room at a truck stop just to find relief. Feh. So then they tell me that the CT scan the other day revealed that I have a couple of kidney stones, but those aren't what's causing all this unpleasurable activity cuz they're still just hangin' with their homies in my (left) kidney. Sweet. My bladder looks "fine". My urethra, however, is inflamed and so they are going to stretch it. What the fuck? Also, they're going to stretch my bladder while they're all up in my bidness because that'll help them determine whether or not there's more of a problem there than there appears to be, but the best part is I might actually be able to hold more than an hour's worth of PEE at a time! Wooot! I am the queen of the potty, and not just my mouth, baby! So in a week or so I'll go in to the hospital for a lil outpatient lovin' and get my urethra and bladder stretched out as well as have some soundwave thingy to break up the Stone. I'm gonna get De-Stoned, baby! Unstoned? Whatev. It'll be super fun. And if you think I'm weird for being all excited that there's something wrong with me, then apparently you've never been in the position of knowing something's wrong but not being able to figure it out for a while. Knowing is so much better than wondering!
(for cleavage and legs, scroll down a bit--it'll help clear your mind...)
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Perhaps it is because today is a day with a black mark on it, a day I've been fearing since January 12th. Or maybe it's the result of an afternoon too full of sun and too empty of beer. I got so bored at the pool that I took pictures...
Hello, friend!
Hell-oooooo, friend(s)! *wink* (I took about 10 of these...and then wanted to text them to random people and see if they could guess what the picture was of--the original picture is a sideways view, so it is harder to tell what you're looking at...)
Leggo my eggo, bitch!
And now I'm home and I'm sunkissed and content. But I also just feel like pissing into the wind, or running with scissors-- riding bareback. Eh.
It is so easy to make resolutions when there is no one to hear them spoken. I make decisions all the time and don't follow through, but this is it. I'm doing it. I'm feeling so reckless I'm thiiiiiiis close to spouting off the exact details of the shitstorm I'm navigating right now. but I won't. It's probably fairly obvious from my wacko posts that I've been having some marital issues, but I'll leave it at that for now.
Let's hope that the twelfth of every 5th month ISN'T the end of my world, m'kay?
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And on a happier note-- The most darling man (topping my list of sexiest older men for a while now) has taken my challenge to see which of us can get back in shape first! If any of you want to join us, just speak up. That man is goin' DOWN!!! (not like that, Jerry. PERVERT!) Heh. Ok, like that...but just ONCE--we have weight to lose here, mister! You know, that gives me an idea. Why don't they have Sex For Weight Loss clinics? They could be fully stocked with porn stars and condoms and you just have to weigh in every day; as long as you're losing weight you stay. The deal would be that the porn stars would be required to make you do all the work. Bingo--weight loss! Hmm...I think I'll apply for a small business loan... heh. Well, my new house is significantly closer to the Nevada border, ya know. I bet they allow shit like that. In any case-- the great Get-Back-In-Shape-A-Thon is on!!!!
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I heard this song today as I was driving in my car. I liked it. So when I got home I googled its ass and tracked it down. It helped me to see what a crazy ole drama queen I've been lately, though. I only know of one way to remedy that, but I don't know if I will. It's like...when there's something that you want and you're told you can't have it-- absolutely not nuh-uh no way no how NEVER-- then your feet start shifting your weight back and forth, like they don't know whether to stay or to go. (They know that if they stay there will be trouble... but if they go it will be double.) It also makes your eyes twitch. And increases attacks of indigestion, insomnia, and general all-around irritability. You want to roar at the man who hands you the clipboard or shove the woman who takes your order. For no reason. Or at least... No reason that connects the act to the stranger. Siiiiiiiiiiiiigh. So, the solution is simple: have that thing you're forbidden, and you'll stop thinking it is the air you must breathe, the water which, when drunk, becomes part of every cell in your body, and...when drunk, that thing is your apricot hefewiezen... That thing, which becomes perfect in your mind because your mind is its only residence now. That thing which was perfect before, but we'll pretend there were faults because usually there are. That thing... in its beauty and dearness......... that thing does reach unusual and unnatural proportions-- gaining volume and power until it consumes you. So. It's best to just have it. ...who me? rationalize? Nah. *wink* But you know, life is for being happy, right? And life is for LIVING-- Life is for loving and I don't just mean sex-- I mean offering help to those who need it and offering an ear to those who need it, and offering sex to-- oops. Sorta came full-circle there, didn't I? heh. Well. Thanks for being the table on which I can dump out the giant purse which is my mind and attempt to organize it.
I bought fresh raspberries today and I am nearly quivering over the decision of just what to do with them!! Becky says pie, but then she CAN say pie cuz she's a stick figure. That chick on the Discovery Health show, Healthy Decadance says a chocolate raspberry smoothie...half the fat, all the flavor. Eh. I've never been a smoothie kinda gal. I prefer chewing. So. I'll keep you posted.
Good times, bad times, you know I've had my share...
Led Zepellin was not one of the performers last night, but that line just seems fitting.
I went to the True Colors concert, at our beautiful amphitheatre. For the first time in my life (read that again, with feeling) I was glad to have an actual seat at a concert. I wasn't really in the mood to jam out (either with or without my clam out...heh...) and it was nice to just sit back and soak up the sunshine, my cold, $8.50 draft beer in a convenient cupholder on the seat, and enjoy the not-too-hot-thank-god sunshine and groovy music. The best performance of the night goes to the Dresden Dolls,
a new-to-me band, although it should probably go to Cyndi Lauper herself, because she was truly adorable in every way and put on a great show. Margaret Cho was simply lickable as the MC-- making good use of the plentiful Mormon-themed material available to her, with immitations and stories as well as lots of great political crap.
Here's the comment I left here from my phone last night: Deborah Harry just left the stage and right now the stereo is playing Amy Winehouse's cover of The Zutons' "Valerie"!! It's almost as if You were here... like my wish. But you weren't there, it was just me. My husband and I sat in silence for most of the show, but finally the beer kicked in and he started talking. We shared some good laughs then, in the cool night air. But there was darkness around us long before the sun slipped behind the mountains. I hope we can heal.
I've been having a great time with my kids this weekend, and am truly looking forward to the coming weeks where we have nowhere to be in the mornings and we can go to the pool and for walks and stuff.
All of this angsty crap I write lately is my therapy, so please don't think this is all there is to my current life. I still make people laugh, just not here. I am still a good listener, just not here. I am still having fun with my kids and having world-famous sex with my husband. I still work out and cook and read and clean my house and sing along to music. I just have a heavy load to lug around in an awkwardly shaped bag at the moment. I want nothing more than to make everyone else (and myself) happy, but I don't know how. I am as immobilized as every story in James Joyce's The Dubliners. I'm the girl who wouldn't get on the boat, even though it was her only way out of a nowhere life. I'm the boy who wouldn't buy anything at the bazaar after finally making it there, even though it would have brought him closer to the girl he wanted so desperately. The rock and the hard place are my left hand and my right.
I keep thinking that once I make this decision I will be able to return to myself, but how do I know? How do I know which decision to make? Rock. Hard place. Both decisions are completely right. And completely wrong. They both have devastating consequences while offering peace and joy.
I think I'll go shower, then feed the kids (again) and wander over to the pool. We may even venture out the movies this afternoon if we think the little guys can sit still for the entire 7 and a half hours of Pirates 3...
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but I guess it's just not in the stars for me to lay off the deeee pressing melod ramatic crap. Why? Because sometimes loving people hurts so intricately that tracing the paths of that pain as it zings through one's body would take an ant a lifetime. Why is it hard to see someone you love loving other people? Usually it's good, usually it's nice..... but sometimes, the ache is overwhelming and I feel myself falling into an abyss of thick, black greed. For just a moment my chest tightens and I want all that love for myself. But then I remember... I send love out into this world in a vast array of styles, flavors, textures-- and it gives me joy to find other people who do the same. I just sometimes wish that I was the only sun in the sky... and then I remember that I am, but the stars are welcome and adored, too. yeah. I'm such a psycho, you guys. Christ. All mighty.
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Why must I live my life tormented by my desires? I crave everything anything something. I yearn for the dusty streets of the Depression Era Midwest. I ache for the sight of a tornado hurtling itself across the expansive flatness of landscape that I can only imagine. I grow breathless at the urgency with which I want to be in a kayak on the ocean right now, or to know what it feels like to use a paint brush and a pallette to create an image of beauty. I want to be everything, everyone. I want to know which way, which way the wind blows... I want there to be flashing lights illuminating my Path. I want to stop wanting so damn much!!! I want to figure out why I can't be satisfied with this beautiful life I have. Is it me? Will I never be satisfied? Or is it that there truly is something missing? And is it what I think it is? Or something else entirely? And, wouldn'tcha know it, my psychic is on vacation. :D Nah, she doesn't know either.
What I do know is that I had a great workout and I will now eat a healthy, yummy lunch followed by a shower and then I will pop into Old Navy for the shirt I've been wanting since the last time I was there.
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It was in the 90s Sunday and Monday, but Tuesday looked bleak. I woke last night to the sound of thunder (how far off, I sat and wondered)... uh. No, let's try that again. I was not humming a song from 1962, and while I'll agree that it is funny how the night moves, I will not allow this post to be hijacked by a song that was not covered by Metallica. Ahem. So... where was I? Yeah...last night I went to bed late, but restless. (which is different than being young and restless or having restless leg syndrome or ramsey-hunt syndrome or having a niece named Ramsey or...ahem.) Well, fuck. This is going nowhere at a rather fast clip, innit? Ok, last night I went to bed late, but I was wide awake. I thought about people I've loved and lost along the way (yes, that's probably another song lyric, but if we hold hands and run like mad, maybe we'll make it through this without any further interuptions...not counting this one...) fuck. As I tossed and turned, the lightening flashed through the top, decorative/unshuttered window and forced my eyes open. There was deep, rumbly-wonderful thunder and I hoped for more lightening, but dozed off again before it arrived. Today it's chilly and dark and wet. Crazy weather patterns. They're a little bit psychedelic... I dreamed last night from A to Z...nah, more like A and Z. But that doesn't really mean anything to anyone but me. I dreamed of the apocolypse, slowly approaching, by way of the sea.
I am oddly calm but feeling unmoored. Untethered, upside down. I am drowning in indecision. But my house is sparkling clean and I have been banished from my mother in law's (by my husband, who wants to see if she is willing to do what it takes to make her own crazy dreams come true instead of forcing other people to do illogical things to help her out...). I need to hike to the Diamond Fork hot springs, that's what. I talked about it a little while ago and we didn't do it. I need it.
I gained a guitar from the great lawn sale adventure. My very own acoustic... But... for your guitar, I gently weep.
There's a line from my new favorite artist, Amy Winehouse, that keeps running over my tongue like cold milk-- You walk away, the sun goes down. It just feels so final. But I don't believe in finality so it shivers me timbers a bit.
I heard a song today that I thought was Bob Dylan, so that counts, right? Turns out it was Dire Straits, but whatev. It's a song I knew well as covered by the Indigo Girls, so beautiful in its raw passion from a woman to a woman. Romeo & Juliet. I can't listen to it without feeling it, you know? That song...it is the embodiment of just a breath of a moan lingering on the edge of a husky voice, tense with the agony of unrequited love. That whole, "I love you like the stars above, I'm gonna love you til I die" line!! GOD damn, baby! That shit, oh, fuck, that shit sends me off into the milk-smeared sky.
I still believe in the kind of world where the things we never believed possible can become so. This world is getting uglier every minute that belief wavers-- the belief that the one thing I've always needed but never knew existed can still be mine. I die a little every second I have to entertain the possibility that it was all just a figment of my imagination.
I am in a labyrinth and I will find my way out. Me, David Bowie and that hot brunette. --'ello. --Did you just say, "hello"? --No, I said, "'ello", but close enough. I have always wanted to be dropped into a giant, hedge maze (hold the Jack Nicholson, than you very much!) and now here I am. It's darker than I thought it would be, but the hedges are comfortingly evergreen-scented.
Yes, I'm pretty sure I've crossed into Crazy Artist Type territory, but I'm totally ok with that. Hell, living in my head sounds kind of fun. I always identified with that Ally McBeal storyline to an uncomfortable degree.
Tomorrow, boating with friends. A beautiful lake, good company, what else do we need??? Monday, the kids start a week of day camp. I know, I know, I'm evil for signing them up for the first week of summer vacation, but I thought I would be spending lots of time with wacko mother-in-law. Turns out I probably won't, but oh well. After this week's marathon of moving useless shit, I could use the break. My own house could stand a bit of a scrub down, frankly!
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