October 16, 2006

does he love you?

Its becoming too perfect, my mom was right, she said she fears the worst if he was to never do anything too right or too wrong. And now I feel like I am pushing his actions, making excuses in my mind to make him too perfect but in reality I look to myself I’m craving something, someone, anyone else, a little drama, a little weight. There was a trigger, I mean I was previously trudging along, alone, separated by a country but held together by thin phone lines and then it popped in, popped up. Her awful online profile ran across my screen ending there by flits of a mouse before my mind could stop it. The Holly, the other women of a former lover was in fact living in the very state of my desire, my desired, probably with this former lover. I became lightheaded, asked for consoling through texting my roommate. Most likely I am insane or perhaps I thought that this former lover must be still lusting looking longing after me because I am selfish. It makes me want to wear his necklace, his sweatshirt, it makes me want to call, text, email, it makes me want to move there sooner, now, tomorrow, yesterday. And yet here I wait, an empty neck, in a pink velour sweatshirt of my own, unconnected, uncontacted. And continuing living, driving, crying here on the west coast, lost in long distance perfection and untimely jealousy.

October 11, 2006

Bo and the first rain

Today was the first rain since about may or so. I had heard it was coming yesterday on the early morning news while I was getting dressed. They said it would come last night but it didn’t. It came today at about 2pm and my roommates exclaimed, “What’s that sound? Is that rain?” And we all went and stood under the skylight and stared upward watching it drip down the sides of the opaque concave window. When the mediocre meteorologist had mentioned to expect rain I wondered where my dollar store umbrella was, probably at my parents house, I’ll need to go there and get some sort of rain gear, boots, jackets with hoods and such. There’s a certain excitement among the channels though as far as the weathermen are concerned, even the reporters find it fantastical to have some kind of truth to the news, something real to report on is novelty. Regardless of all this I have come in contact with a young man who is a waiter where I now hostess. His name is Bo; he has the later shift where his tables are located nearest to my hostess stand. As I am new I am just discovering the personalities of my co-workers and they me I guess. Bo often stops to talk, make small comments about nothing of too much importance but simply to pass the time. He bares a resemblance to Christopher Robin, Winnie the Pooh’s friend, but with shorter darker hair but has the same happy demeanor. The rain intrigued him to much greatness. He commented that the temperature would make this situation the perfect evening to take a walk in the rain, and later he did go stand outside and upon his return reported it to be “really nice out there”. He was right about the whole taking a walk in the rain, it would be nice, walking along, sharing an umbrella with a friend or lover, laughing slipping down the city sidewalk as it gets washed clean or makes mud of the slick streets. The way the stoplights and crosswalk signals have an aquatic glow about them. Rain is an interesting thing, a season I am looking forward to, a life style of waterproof gear and squeaky shoes.

painting by Joseph La Pierre

October 03, 2006

push on, depression

It's there you know, right behind a thin veil, waiting, wanting; haunting really, to be tapped into, to be let out in a ghostly mist, set to descend. And one would think, one would think that given the state of my current affiars, I would be drenched within it, this descending depression and yet I find myself content, unnervingly content, for while I feel stretched, between two coasts, and dried up, tanned, like a bovine hide I am still content, happy even, in my circumstances. Revelling in depression has formerly gotten me to no successes, only tear ridden poetry. Now I try to turn it on as this veil, this ghastly shroud has always been my greatest resource for creativity, for writing specifically. I am empty. I am empty? doubtful, doubtless.