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Jun. 9th, 2011
"And their memory's like a train"
Jun. 9th, 2011 05:04 pmI still don’t know what I miss about Asshat. It might have been good, once, but I’ve trained myself to remember only the bad, but since I still miss him I’m left with unsettling impression that I miss having someone talk to me about how miserable his life was, or the way I was embarrassed when he thought he was smarter than me, or Light, or our friends.
I wish to be thought about in my absence. Lesson once sent me a postcard from Italy with nothing on it but a poem he’d written about me. It wasn’t a very good poem, but it still made me weak at the knees. I'd love to know I was crossing someone's mind and maybe that's what I miss, and Asshat provided that in some mildly crippled way, because he'd burnt the few bridges he had and even if he wasn't happy about it, I was what he got.
I used to feel like a kid, bringing frogs home to show off (though I don't think I did that as an actual child). I'd save up my stories and pour them out, to Light, to History, to Junkyard, to Asshat, to anyone who would listen. And maybe I don't have as many stories, or I'm looking for the wrong audience to listen to them. Or maybe I want someone to listen to, someone to figure out, someone to say "that's a lovely frog" to.
And over and over again, I suspect this is the narrative of how I'm going to play out deliberate childlessness. Well, this and lots of small mammals. And a lot of cookbooks. I'm going to keep looking for things until I find them, and try to bake more and see more live music in the meantime.
And I want to be chiller about this, I want to find a calmer place to work from. And I think it's time to take some time to regroup. I tried something, and it didn't really work, and I tried another thing, and that wasn't it either. So, I'll go back to the drawing board, make sure I know what the constants are, and find something else into which to put all this freaking energy. Just as soon as I can use my left hand again.
I wish to be thought about in my absence. Lesson once sent me a postcard from Italy with nothing on it but a poem he’d written about me. It wasn’t a very good poem, but it still made me weak at the knees. I'd love to know I was crossing someone's mind and maybe that's what I miss, and Asshat provided that in some mildly crippled way, because he'd burnt the few bridges he had and even if he wasn't happy about it, I was what he got.
I used to feel like a kid, bringing frogs home to show off (though I don't think I did that as an actual child). I'd save up my stories and pour them out, to Light, to History, to Junkyard, to Asshat, to anyone who would listen. And maybe I don't have as many stories, or I'm looking for the wrong audience to listen to them. Or maybe I want someone to listen to, someone to figure out, someone to say "that's a lovely frog" to.
And over and over again, I suspect this is the narrative of how I'm going to play out deliberate childlessness. Well, this and lots of small mammals. And a lot of cookbooks. I'm going to keep looking for things until I find them, and try to bake more and see more live music in the meantime.
And I want to be chiller about this, I want to find a calmer place to work from. And I think it's time to take some time to regroup. I tried something, and it didn't really work, and I tried another thing, and that wasn't it either. So, I'll go back to the drawing board, make sure I know what the constants are, and find something else into which to put all this freaking energy. Just as soon as I can use my left hand again.
"And their memory's like a train"
Jun. 9th, 2011 05:04 pmI still don’t know what I miss about Asshat. It might have been good, once, but I’ve trained myself to remember only the bad, but since I still miss him I’m left with unsettling impression that I miss having someone talk to me about how miserable his life was, or the way I was embarrassed when he thought he was smarter than me, or Light, or our friends.
I wish to be thought about in my absence. Lesson once sent me a postcard from Italy with nothing on it but a poem he’d written about me. It wasn’t a very good poem, but it still made me weak at the knees. I'd love to know I was crossing someone's mind and maybe that's what I miss, and Asshat provided that in some mildly crippled way, because he'd burnt the few bridges he had and even if he wasn't happy about it, I was what he got.
I used to feel like a kid, bringing frogs home to show off (though I don't think I did that as an actual child). I'd save up my stories and pour them out, to Light, to History, to Junkyard, to Asshat, to anyone who would listen. And maybe I don't have as many stories, or I'm looking for the wrong audience to listen to them. Or maybe I want someone to listen to, someone to figure out, someone to say "that's a lovely frog" to.
And over and over again, I suspect this is the narrative of how I'm going to play out deliberate childlessness. Well, this and lots of small mammals. And a lot of cookbooks. I'm going to keep looking for things until I find them, and try to bake more and see more live music in the meantime.
And I want to be chiller about this, I want to find a calmer place to work from. And I think it's time to take some time to regroup. I tried something, and it didn't really work, and I tried another thing, and that wasn't it either. So, I'll go back to the drawing board, make sure I know what the constants are, and find something else into which to put all this freaking energy. Just as soon as I can use my left hand again.
I wish to be thought about in my absence. Lesson once sent me a postcard from Italy with nothing on it but a poem he’d written about me. It wasn’t a very good poem, but it still made me weak at the knees. I'd love to know I was crossing someone's mind and maybe that's what I miss, and Asshat provided that in some mildly crippled way, because he'd burnt the few bridges he had and even if he wasn't happy about it, I was what he got.
I used to feel like a kid, bringing frogs home to show off (though I don't think I did that as an actual child). I'd save up my stories and pour them out, to Light, to History, to Junkyard, to Asshat, to anyone who would listen. And maybe I don't have as many stories, or I'm looking for the wrong audience to listen to them. Or maybe I want someone to listen to, someone to figure out, someone to say "that's a lovely frog" to.
And over and over again, I suspect this is the narrative of how I'm going to play out deliberate childlessness. Well, this and lots of small mammals. And a lot of cookbooks. I'm going to keep looking for things until I find them, and try to bake more and see more live music in the meantime.
And I want to be chiller about this, I want to find a calmer place to work from. And I think it's time to take some time to regroup. I tried something, and it didn't really work, and I tried another thing, and that wasn't it either. So, I'll go back to the drawing board, make sure I know what the constants are, and find something else into which to put all this freaking energy. Just as soon as I can use my left hand again.