crazy

I don't know why I have chosen this blog today--except that I do. I feel such cautiously optimistic--almost to the point of the surreal. Yesterday, in his arms, the familiar was both unfamiliar and familiar. I lose track of time. I lose track of everything. I don't want to lose track in myself. I don't want to take a risk again.

He says the right words--punctuated throughout the evenings with "man of my word"--words. I love words. So, why do I find it so difficult to believe his? I want to be happy. I believe I deserve to be happy. But can happiness happen now? What changed? We both find ourselves on an ending,and apparently at a crossroads.

"You know I'm crazy about you." What?! Why weren't you crazy about me then? Why now? Too busy. Didn't date. Why? He professes because he was crazy about me.

The words are hollow--not that he doesn't say them with conviction, although, maybe that is part of it--he's almost embarrassed about them. these words. and why shouldn't he be? those words make him vulnerable.

Unpopular decision. He has had this crafted. This speech. Not that I didn't have somethings in my arsenal, prepackaged, ready to go. "The proposition I made 2 years ago has expired. And I haven't decided if you're worth the trouble yet." The statement was intended to make clear that he had fallen well past the statute of limitations, while at the same time injecting a bit of a challenge--you should prove to me you are worth the trouble.

He went beyond that with his "crazy about you"--

Super mastermind? or Sincere?

He's a good man. I've always held this. What he does for people he cares for; how he protects them; . . . but then I think how he hesitated two years ago and then never pursued. Never explained. Just dropped it. And I'm supposed to swallow that he has been crazy about me for these two years but that the timing was wrong and that he was just too rational.

I'm his opposite in that--I'm too irrational, too reliant, oftentimes, on emotions--though dealing with regents and with senators/members of the assembly has made me savvier.

This is what is so disturbing. I could feel the wall I erected for him--to keep him out--to keep him at bay--to never show him what that rejection felt like--that everything I saw would remain only with me. I could feel that wall--even in his arms--solid. hard. cold. rational.

I'm safe so long as I am distance--and yet (of course, there's an "and yet") I flash to his face,to his neck, to his lips on mine, to his embrace, to my hands in his hair, on his arms, then pinned behind me so that I am not giving myself away by reaching for him, and I flush and then my body shakes as if it were cold.

30 minutes to closing. I need to read.

arms outstretched in front of me, head turned to the side and my gaze down . . .

feelin' catty

What does it all mean? These posts, the click click of my nails hitting the keys. A sort of plunking sound that punctuates around the dark spaces.

I'm constantly playing. playing playing playing.

I have an aversion to cats and to cat people (so it would seem) and yet I'm feeling quite feline today. Stealthy, stretched, over-stretched and arched all the same time.

In my mind's eye, I crouch, defensive. When will I stop playing?

one turn of the screw too far

raw like a she-devil on acid
no not raw--but pulsating
an open wound
desert heat
spiral

i know not what i type
and still i contemplate
--it's not true, you know
(the facade turns in upon itself)
its-self
loathing

but no worries. (worry more)
she knows for whom the bell tolls. . .
kafka rings
she twitters, flitters her mississippi wings

the cockroach she killed ten years ago--
it was for you

menace
blackwater mud-slinger

she rises to scream
unfurled,
unfinished,
undone
scream,
she rises
raw,

wine, akon, and fantasies

i wonder if he can find this. if he can find my trace on the internet, and i wonder why i want this. and yet i do. i realy do. it makes my cheeks flush the way i want this.

wine. let's blame it on the wine. . .and akon--god help me, i seem to love akon. funny.

i'm so surprised at myself for so many of my thoughts. . . i'm not into sharing tonight, so i won't.

serenity please

While not the little girl in the meadow and also not (thankfully) the shedevil in a straitjacket, today is about understanding the things I do not know.

Literary muses, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change; (like the bitterness I feel towards Ezra Pound at this moment)
courage to change the things I can; (like reading what other people have said about Pound so that I might not feel as vehement about his poetry)
and wisdom to know the difference.

today's word: gyre -- as in Yeats. as in his symbol of history's repeated patterns

countdown to maddness

1.5 weeks to go til written comps. i can tell you i feel black. red. i feel like i did when i quit smoking. my veins are exploding. i am impatient. nothing soothes and i want to tear at people around me. vicious. animal. i'm reverting/regressing. i could scream. i really could--there's no one here to hear me. i paused to consider this. i don't think it would help. i can't study this way. with cards. going back through. it's driving me nuts.

little girl in the field no more. try a shedevil in a straitjacket.

i can only be myself

i can only be myself. be comfortable and act as i would act. as myself. in this situation. fluid. moving and reacting as i would. as comes naturally for me. not get sucked into my own psyche where i defeat myself in order to perpetuate normality. it is normal for me to resist any form giving of myself. i self destruct. i freak out. i must not overanalyze. not overthink. not obsess. "breathe through the anxiety" she said. and she is right. only in this way can i enjoy this. yes, i can enjoy the unknown. i can enjoy the anticipation. the anxiety. i would like to think of the end result. of the obstacles. of the worst--and then do what i do: destroy any potential. to keep myself safe. but not this time. i am enjoying this. a pendulum swinging from thoughts of autobiography, reflection, archives and swinging to thoughts of him, of what he was like, of what he meant for me that moment, that day, that night. snapshots of looks layered with textures of embrace, of words, the things we said, the things we did. all of this to swing back to what should and is (mostly) my focus: reading. breathe through this. nothing needs to be laid out. nothing needs yet to be said. relish in what has happened without looking too far forward to what will or will not happen. this will keep me fluid, moving, re/acting.