a copy of an email that I will probably regret sending...
F-
some ruminations
there is always a patch of dry rot, manifesting in a bone, a dessicated stretch of heart. A dry old ghost rattling on the cerebellum. If viscera is pinkly pliant and muscle is wetly taught, a body combats the dusty cancer as best it can, be it with love or meditation, or frequent dousing in fortified alcohols, with running in one spot as fast as you can, with sex.
behind the house where I grew up, where the garden ceded to the forest, there was this patch of ripped up forest where my brother and I would hunt for snakes. Dry rot smells of sun and dust, mulch of bug, frightened snake.
I don't find my life to be all that fraught with danger, mostly I find it staid. I find myself ruled by the dual houses of pragmatism and romanticism, the romantic wants and wants, yearns, pines for adventure. The pragmatic tends to quash such headiness, confining my romantic wanderings to the great sea of my clawfoot tub and the dark ocean of my imagination.
TGV to hell, it'll be a quick trip.
(though you don't strike me as the type to burn for all of eternity, I see more a mischevious imp, strumming the theme to Deliverence on a harp, while perched on Cloud Nine.)
Away has to await September. Then to South of France for days of rose and gauloises, for a wedding.
The Mountain air is the breath of my childhood, snow sears fingers and toes and nose. And I am going to be with friends from childhood, I have known most of these girls since I was seven. I love them, we have long and storied histories (and a few rivalries) but they are ALL married with kids now. I am to spend the weekend with eleven small children...
that it freaks me out makes me quite sure that I am not prepared to be anybodies mother.
My dotty Grandmother, Alzheimers addled, has a penchant for rhinestones, mean spirited old crow crone. I would forsake a rhinestone jacket for myself, as I have forsaken EVER following the Urban Cowboy look. Plus, my girls and I are ever mindful of not resembling a two dollar hooker. Diamonds, however, are a wholly different animal.
Basics.
Life is.
I love my family and I love my friends.
I have shelter and it is likely that I will never go hungry.
Point me towards the center and I will show you the Void.
Please wish D. a happy 40th, they say that forty is the new thirty, but I can wait.
~
F-
some ruminations
there is always a patch of dry rot, manifesting in a bone, a dessicated stretch of heart. A dry old ghost rattling on the cerebellum. If viscera is pinkly pliant and muscle is wetly taught, a body combats the dusty cancer as best it can, be it with love or meditation, or frequent dousing in fortified alcohols, with running in one spot as fast as you can, with sex.
behind the house where I grew up, where the garden ceded to the forest, there was this patch of ripped up forest where my brother and I would hunt for snakes. Dry rot smells of sun and dust, mulch of bug, frightened snake.
I don't find my life to be all that fraught with danger, mostly I find it staid. I find myself ruled by the dual houses of pragmatism and romanticism, the romantic wants and wants, yearns, pines for adventure. The pragmatic tends to quash such headiness, confining my romantic wanderings to the great sea of my clawfoot tub and the dark ocean of my imagination.
TGV to hell, it'll be a quick trip.
(though you don't strike me as the type to burn for all of eternity, I see more a mischevious imp, strumming the theme to Deliverence on a harp, while perched on Cloud Nine.)
Away has to await September. Then to South of France for days of rose and gauloises, for a wedding.
The Mountain air is the breath of my childhood, snow sears fingers and toes and nose. And I am going to be with friends from childhood, I have known most of these girls since I was seven. I love them, we have long and storied histories (and a few rivalries) but they are ALL married with kids now. I am to spend the weekend with eleven small children...
that it freaks me out makes me quite sure that I am not prepared to be anybodies mother.
My dotty Grandmother, Alzheimers addled, has a penchant for rhinestones, mean spirited old crow crone. I would forsake a rhinestone jacket for myself, as I have forsaken EVER following the Urban Cowboy look. Plus, my girls and I are ever mindful of not resembling a two dollar hooker. Diamonds, however, are a wholly different animal.
Basics.
Life is.
I love my family and I love my friends.
I have shelter and it is likely that I will never go hungry.
Point me towards the center and I will show you the Void.
Please wish D. a happy 40th, they say that forty is the new thirty, but I can wait.
~
posted by emma at
5:56 PM
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