emma b. says

Monday, August 22, 2005

And so I wept

And grief seeped from my pores and my tears were saltier than the sea, and my heart, and my heart was coursing with salt water blood and the sobs choked and shook me. And it was all and only a TV show, there will be no reunion because the Fishers are all dead, now. And as ridiculous as it seems, I mourn, not their absence from my Sunday night schedule, but from the lonesome chemical blue of all of those diodes they made sense of a loss and they married and died, but they lived within the the script, within my imagination, they all got that last and most precious second chance and bore it with good grace and great patience and didn't rocket launch themselves brilliantly flaming, but short of fuse into the parched lawn. Nor did they let that gnawing bitterness microwave them from the inside out. Sometimes I would rather run a marathon than open my mouth to speak, lest my monsters fall out. Just like P said tonight, the only spirit left in Pandora's box was hope, all shriveled up and hopelessly resilient. The lone shadow boxer under the blighted noon day sun.

So I got in my car and I drove, I am, afterall an american girl, I drove windows down with the late night fog billowing through my windows and obscuring my vision, I drove with the music loud, I drove against the ache in me and I drove past where the street lights end and the only thing that is illuminated is the surf, by some curious phenomenon on a moonless, fog socked night and there is something primordially soothing and alternately depressing about mist damp sand underfoot and the rhythmic crash of another wave and another and another, breaking always breaking, heedless of me and my imaginary lover, and all of the the other lovers who have stood beside me watching the waves break. Are we destined to always repeat, with the queue of lovers past and present all lining up for a taste of ephemeral cotton candy, to susbscibe whole heartedly and without regret to the church of Derrida and on your dying day with the milky eyes and thre trace paper skin to utter, a reference is a reference is a reference, damn that Proust anyhow.

In the mean time me and my aircast have taken to trolling in supermarkets for sympathy, I am not so proud, not so proud at all. Since I am forever stumbling over my tongue on my way out the door, perhaps I ought milk this conversation piece for all it's worth, well a funny thing happened on the way to the forum, turns out three weeks without exercise equates to eight pounds, and a serious dent to my already tenuous self esteem, my fabulous new hair color notwithstanding. And no amount of pre-fab crumble-buttery madeleines are ever going to bring back all of those memories whistling on the deep grey marine layer up with the pelicans just beyond my grasp. I 'll just have to keep driving, but I always knew that anyway.

I am just not entirely sure this is what I thought it would be at all, and again, are we doomed to forever reconcile our adolescent versions of ourselves with the cold, hard truth, or at least today's truth, and last month's truth, then again, does anyone ever expect that at a certain age to be pouring perhaps the best, most unguarded part of ourselves into a medium for all to disect, for all to judge, what kind of narcissim is that (the very best kind, the only kind), the kind that has sand in her air cast and sand in her panties and is up past her bed time, but she of the sandy panties and the the words that flow like a hunger, like I could eat my keyboard and my glass and my half empty pack of cigarettes, and I can exhale smoke through my nostrils like a dragon, but really it's a just a ruse, everyone has an their achilles heal, their fragile scale, look at me, internets, I am falling to pieces, but I am falling into a replicated model, I am forever a hairline off, I am forever imperfect, I am forever dangling by a thread, only sorta half enslaved to my much vaunted reason, whatever that might mean, dreaming of a warm ocean without the hum of speedboats, at dusk, and the simple blue fusion of a warm evening and sea and depth, nothing to do but tread water with the stars singing in my ears.


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