breathe steam on the window and draw you a heart. I don't want to change these filthy sheets, because I get into bed alone and they still smell like you, and it's worth the dirt. fingers smudged with ink unwritten fantasies that already came true, tragedy on the sidewalk and a loft apartment waiting for me to rollerskate in. hours at work spent wondering waking moments spent sleeping dreaming away the morning of all the things I don't want to be. all this for a glass that slips through my fingers and breaks poetically on the barroom floor in slow motion, slips shatters sideways shards crunching under the soles of my boots.
torn between better and best.
an accompaniment now for these everyday things, where there's no glamour to be had, and you stand there and love the way I tie my shoes, and I watch you sleeping. three thousand miles beckons, cinnamon strains on new year's eve, floating through patches of open door: letting out the music, letting in the cold. I've done too much and said too much but there's still so much more left to go.
shelf mattress pillowtops old paintings
let's do things and see things and wish against the odds to wherever it all takes us. brilliant shining moments, words we refuse to say, hands on hearts and mouths on fire. desperate searching kissing, tangled limbs, reeling. carry-ons, death and all the things before now that didn't quite work out. shaved head shocking reds whispers in the hallways, smiles when you greet me, and I want it all to go away. shatter the eggshells and hit the floor screaming, stop pretending. paragraphs and broken lines and the nape of my neck under the thumb of your left hand, all softness and urgency.
I was all prepared to write some commentary, some update on my life, and then my writers block decided to leave me, and I had to listen to it. there's a strangeness now to the ends of my fingertips, and I'm ready to throw on certain cds and get lost and have the words follow me around for days.
so with the deadline looming, I haven't written a book, but I've written twenty five thousand words or so. which is more than I've ever done for one piece, on purpose, and it's actually got some good moments in it. like when I step outside the shell of who I used to be in the patch of sunlight on the driveway, bare feet on warm pavement. I tried to write a book, I wrote part of a book, and well, the thing is, I got a little distracted. for the good.
and maybe the myth is true, that the tragedies and the passions (good and bad) are the things that fill the margins of my notebook, that make me go running for the pen, holed up in this back office for hours, ignoring phone calls and incoming faxes. I went to a meeting last night and I didn't want to be me. even though me consists of so many wonderful things. but I didn't want to be "that girl": the one that has a hard time with the holidays because her dad's dead and her mom has cancer. the one that can't stop spending money she doesn't have, the one that's twenty nine and divorced with nothing to show for it but a one-room flat and some empty cat food cans.
and in writing this, I'm realizing that those things aren't the whole of who I am. those things are happening, but - I'm stronger for them. and I have a one-room flat and no belongings because I got rid of a bunch of stuff that didn't suit me anymore. and I'm spending too much, but the financial insecurities that plagued me forever are long gone. and I love my cat, and my divorce taught me a lot about relationships, and I've never been healthier or more sane than I am right now, at this very moment.
my chipped dark red nail polish feels oh-so punk rock. I kind of like it. I used to need it. but not any more.
I guess the part I hate the most is the eggshell part. where people are trying to care and be compassionate, and doing the best they know how, but - you get treated like you're different. well, you know, victoria, she's having a hard time - when you're sitting there and you want everyone to care about you but at the same time you just want people to treat you like you're alright. I'd rather have this than be alone, but still. it's frustrating, and I don't handle it very well. it makes me cry more sometimes.
and to round it all out, there's a Boy. that's right. with a big B. the same one, the tent progression, a month now passed since the first real "date" - and before you laugh and throw things, I only know that because the day afterwards was my friend lesley's wedding. so I like, remembered the date and stuff. there's been a nice calm natural progression of things, a few weekends in bed, lots of talking, and sometimes on sunday mornings we read the paper together and the silence isn't weird. I'm cautiously optimistic, and wondering what the hell I was doing with all these other guys this whole time - I'm not trying to get ahead of myself in any way, but it just feels like this is what it's supposed to feel like.
and to keep this fit for public consumption, I'm going to wrap it up. time to attempt a little bit of something vaguely related to work.
or maybe I'll be back in ten minutes.