Fiddling My Mental Banjo

Okay. Let's try not to be melodramatic about this. So I haven't written in a while. What's the big deal? No one cares about what I say anyway. No one gives a shit. Out of some sort of pride, or fear, I've stopped myself from being indulgent. I've given up on letting my passion consume me. I've tried my best to be temperate and steady and patient, but what I've really found myself being is BORED!

I've spent most of the evening tonight looking over some old notebooks. It's funny, Randolph told me today that's what I should do, but he was referring to old joke notebooks. He had no idea how far back my obsession goes. What I'm reading is pages and pages of anecdotes, journals, lists, and most of all, poems. Long poems, short poems. I used to think in word rhythms and rhymes. Gosh, I was so young! My whole stupid life is contained in those pages. I'm tempted to share some of it here.

Like, what in god's name was I going on about?

***Untitled***

Such clever preparation
For a sorry administration -
Now I hurt
From within.

Such impatient levitation
When you spit your adoration -
I cry,
I never win.

Shake me 'till
I'm but a fizzing bottle
Boiling over
Wilting flames

Of disillusion
And confusion
And a million
Ugly names.

Don't agree
When you don't know.
I refuse to play
Sex goddess.

All this self-hate
Is to show
How good I am,
And just how modest.

Only when habitual
Feeding frenzies
Disperse for quiet
Self-absorption,

Will the digital
Life-like image
Give way to natural
Distortion.

*********************

Umm, is it just me or is that pretty neat? I kind of like it. It's moody. It's revealing enough, but vague enough. *sigh* I should be so inspired every day, for god's sakes! WHY, adult life, WHY have you done this to me?

I came close to tears several times today.

It's been only 5 days or so, but it already feels like eternity. I told the person I'd most recently let myself love, and let myself be seen by, and felt understood by, and that I too completely understood, to fuck off and never speak to me. Because he doesn't really love me, I think. He doesn't care for me as a human being at all. I don't really believe that, but it hurts less to think that than to think that he really does care, but in spite of that went off to have a serious committed relationship with an exotic-looking Asian woman with gums that show just a little too much when she smiles, if you ask me. She may have a perfect little button nose, with a stylish little stud through one of the nostrils, but her body is stockier, her bone structure more massive. Her eyes are just a tad crossed and empty. These are subtle details. I'm sure he doesn't notice anything but her beautiful tan skin and big hair. Men equate big hair with sexiness. I have big hair too, but lack the exotic Asian features, which are on every white man's bucket list.

Anyway, I told him to fuck off. I couldn't continue the fake non-friendship that existed in the dark chasms of our awareness. I could never bring myself to say it before, but we'd had an affair. I let him dump me abruptly, for another woman, then proceeded to have an affair with him for what felt like a hellish forever. I blamed him for starting it, sure, but every fiber of my being wanted it. Each text, or phone call, or better yet, voicemail, would be a treasured trophy - a victory! I'd managed to keep his interest for yet another measurable span of time. I'd managed to weaken him this much...

I was the truly weak one, of course.

It's just hard because although I am surrounded by wonderful, interesting, talented people every day, I feel afraid to initiate the process of opening up again. I didn't feel this tender after the dissolution of my marriage. That hurt like hell, but this somehow feels more damaging. Maybe because my husband's disregard for me manifested itself in violent anger, I felt more able to distance myself from him. With my stupid interesting-nosed, secret ex-whateverthefuck, there was never anything but pure bliss when we were together. Time apart was agony, because I spent it thinking of nothing but the next time we could be together again.... But either way, the wanting never really abated, but the circumstances changed. He simply became unavailable.

And it's making emotionally unavailable for someone new. But someone new is what I need most desperately. That's really the only cure for such a state. Some would argue that time heals all wounds, but time is something I don't have right now. My whole world is spinning at a dizzying pace, and I need someone to hold my hand so I don't keel over. But I'm afraid to chase. I need someone to be brave. It would be that much easier for me to give myself again, if I knew that I was being given to as well.

Or I just need a whoooooole lot of money.

That would help me kill the right amount of time alone while I healed, a la Julia Roberts, eating and praying and loving all over the place. They forgot to include sleep in that movie, now that I think about it. "Eat, pray, love, and SLEEP".

I've got to come back to this. The pandora's box has been opened.

So much tired.

Pass out... must....