"okay, this time you win"
Jun. 17th, 2004 03:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omnia_mutanturtrying to figure out what to say.
and i can't.
i'm not sure if it's the flurry of emails back and forth with lyric and junkyard and notsosecret, if it's the weird feeling that living with light is turning me into a nagging harpy, if it's the increasing amount of boredom present in my workplace, if it's the phase of the moon, or some other incalculable force.
i want to talk about wanting more attention and information from light then i'm getting. i want to talk about how i always forget how much history centers me until i'm there, and suddenly i can remember what matters and what does matter. i want to talk about wanting to cook, wanting to read, wanting to walk, and not knowing where my time goes anymore. i want to talk about getting to roll over and have him there and how it still takes my breath away. i want to talk about the formalizing of commitment (and the mortgage offer in the middle of sylvesters waiting area and how it was like someone took all the air out of the room and my only response was to keep working on the advocate crossword until i could breathe again) and how my symbols don't seem to make sense. (if he wanted to be with me, he'd want to househunt more than he does, the littlegirllost wails and i know she's wrong, but that doesn't shut her up, and what happens when i can't change and he can't change?)
i'm still happy, happier than i used to think i ever could be. i've had a wonderful week, with househunting and history and cherished, and SWAT and settlers of cataan and 10 things I hate about you and b&n. but it feels like every layer of sadness i peel off reveal another, uglier wallpaper from further back in my history, and i want to get to barewall now, i want to be able to start not anew, but as close to as possible. i'm home alone tonight, vintage cancelled and light's out gaming, and i'm hoping to work on the poetry web or read.
(i'm fascinated how every poem seems to have either an implicit or explicit I, an implicit or explicit you, or both. do you always have to imagine an audience in order to be able to write? is language so contextual that one person alone can't make sense of it?)
maybe i'll make brownies tonight. or something else that involves melting chocolate.
and i can't.
i'm not sure if it's the flurry of emails back and forth with lyric and junkyard and notsosecret, if it's the weird feeling that living with light is turning me into a nagging harpy, if it's the increasing amount of boredom present in my workplace, if it's the phase of the moon, or some other incalculable force.
i want to talk about wanting more attention and information from light then i'm getting. i want to talk about how i always forget how much history centers me until i'm there, and suddenly i can remember what matters and what does matter. i want to talk about wanting to cook, wanting to read, wanting to walk, and not knowing where my time goes anymore. i want to talk about getting to roll over and have him there and how it still takes my breath away. i want to talk about the formalizing of commitment (and the mortgage offer in the middle of sylvesters waiting area and how it was like someone took all the air out of the room and my only response was to keep working on the advocate crossword until i could breathe again) and how my symbols don't seem to make sense. (if he wanted to be with me, he'd want to househunt more than he does, the littlegirllost wails and i know she's wrong, but that doesn't shut her up, and what happens when i can't change and he can't change?)
i'm still happy, happier than i used to think i ever could be. i've had a wonderful week, with househunting and history and cherished, and SWAT and settlers of cataan and 10 things I hate about you and b&n. but it feels like every layer of sadness i peel off reveal another, uglier wallpaper from further back in my history, and i want to get to barewall now, i want to be able to start not anew, but as close to as possible. i'm home alone tonight, vintage cancelled and light's out gaming, and i'm hoping to work on the poetry web or read.
(i'm fascinated how every poem seems to have either an implicit or explicit I, an implicit or explicit you, or both. do you always have to imagine an audience in order to be able to write? is language so contextual that one person alone can't make sense of it?)
maybe i'll make brownies tonight. or something else that involves melting chocolate.
