Here we go again, it's the season of last year's party dress, tarted up with this year's hair and this year's eye shadow and maybe a new pair of boots, but it is the same faces and it the same conversations, and it's still me in the corner, except this year I am naked without my cigarettes, sipping perrier with my car keys gouging into my palms.
A year ago I was out of love and, and, and was I anymore free, was I any happier, all I feel these days is the swelling of my age, in my ankles, oh, and in my heart. In my feet after long walks and in my hands, and in that tantalizing sparkle in my vacated loins, spark, spark, that aggravated wild fire.... I have to keep reminding myself of his absence, I have to keep reminding myself that talking to him in my head doesn't mean that he hears me. I have these moments of utter clarity behind the gossamer curtain of reason, I have got it totally nailed down, only to find that I have been conversing with the drawn blinds, and they can't reach out and take my hand. So I just stomp around, I have taken to stomping around, it seems to ease the malaise. It's rhythmic and soothing and prevents me from kicking other people's teeth in.
When I sat down late on this Sunday evening, I was thinking about tacking in another direction with these writings. First of all I vowed that I would not get maudlin (ha!) and repetitive (read drunk)(ha!ha!) and spew and spew, and I have always had a pretty rigorous coda that I would not delete what I threw up... and I have held to that by and large inspite of the shamefacedness the morning after, heavens how I have burned... for the sic, and the sloppy grammar, and the dumbo sentimentality, too much baroque and not enough reason, never enough reason. I have stuck to my arbitrary.
Last night after another party, in Marin, I have had champagne and glass after glass of gassy water. We are in the proximations of a uniform, tall boots, sheath dresses, an air of disregard, the chatter of nothing being said. I hated it when I was twenty-five and I hate even more at thirty-five, I feign a rush of heat and go to look at the smattering of stars between storm fronts. Hold tight to the bracing night, and go to sleep with the windows thown open to the falling rain. It's cold comfort on the pillow case, but it's a comfort nonetheless. It's a cool comfort, without a fellow body, but it's mine, and it's singular, and that's just the way it goes.
A year ago I was out of love and, and, and was I anymore free, was I any happier, all I feel these days is the swelling of my age, in my ankles, oh, and in my heart. In my feet after long walks and in my hands, and in that tantalizing sparkle in my vacated loins, spark, spark, that aggravated wild fire.... I have to keep reminding myself of his absence, I have to keep reminding myself that talking to him in my head doesn't mean that he hears me. I have these moments of utter clarity behind the gossamer curtain of reason, I have got it totally nailed down, only to find that I have been conversing with the drawn blinds, and they can't reach out and take my hand. So I just stomp around, I have taken to stomping around, it seems to ease the malaise. It's rhythmic and soothing and prevents me from kicking other people's teeth in.
When I sat down late on this Sunday evening, I was thinking about tacking in another direction with these writings. First of all I vowed that I would not get maudlin (ha!) and repetitive (read drunk)(ha!ha!) and spew and spew, and I have always had a pretty rigorous coda that I would not delete what I threw up... and I have held to that by and large inspite of the shamefacedness the morning after, heavens how I have burned... for the sic, and the sloppy grammar, and the dumbo sentimentality, too much baroque and not enough reason, never enough reason. I have stuck to my arbitrary.
Last night after another party, in Marin, I have had champagne and glass after glass of gassy water. We are in the proximations of a uniform, tall boots, sheath dresses, an air of disregard, the chatter of nothing being said. I hated it when I was twenty-five and I hate even more at thirty-five, I feign a rush of heat and go to look at the smattering of stars between storm fronts. Hold tight to the bracing night, and go to sleep with the windows thown open to the falling rain. It's cold comfort on the pillow case, but it's a comfort nonetheless. It's a cool comfort, without a fellow body, but it's mine, and it's singular, and that's just the way it goes.
posted by emma at
11:41 PM
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