John Denver Everything
He is magic. And I hope he is at peace.
We had a tape of Higher Ground and...there are songs on there that break down every bit of me that is harsh and walled off and sour.
All This Joy is how I want to live. No other way.
In other news, I had a nasty migraine-esque headache where I was just coming and going in all directions and nauseous and beautifully in pain. And now I can feel it passing, and I kind of like the feeling of the dull pain and surmounting it. Yes. That's what I said. Surmounting. It's an echo fading. When you think of how many things you absolutely cannot bear, and then, of course you did and can and will.
I cannot bear his gaze on me, though I love it. It makes me think of everything, everything, over and over again.
Sometimes I think that I'm fine, othertimes I think I'm ridiculously, off the map disgusting, and I also think I'm a miracle. I wonder if they can all be true all at once.
Maybe I don't care and only wonder how I come across.
I wish I could take comment cards on first impressions.
I wish I could know if he thought me as intelligent as I find him. As charming. Doubtful. A survey, circle on a scale of 1-5. Personal appearance. Charisma. Conversation. And I would collect them and keep a file and I would know. I would know instead of floundering in the dark. It would be Gatsbian in its order and directiveness.
"And us alone, always us alone."
It's maybe back to the Long Lashed Boy that I've wanted so much to...taste someone.
That is a long time to wait. Somewhere inside my heart there must be a silty pearl that I've formed.
We're throwing a bridal shower. One of those events that forces you to take stock of everything even if only by the amount of energy you must exert to not take stock of everything. It's a worry on top of more pertinent, less surreal worries.
And here, this day, starts a love that splits off from any other love. I always love in mason jars. I love in formaldehyde, orbiting fetuses at different stages of development, but in the end, they're all just dead. I always love by the last drop in the toothpaste tube. The last frittering spray of the aerosol can before it must be discarded. The last star that you can detect before the broad pastel sweep of dawn outshines it.
I love on the road not taken, riding a mule, a sterile breed made from two good ideas. A mule heart with thoroughbred legs and a gun to shoot what can not be more easily evaded.
When I look down that road, divine the future by a turn of the Hermit, I can already see your sweet height and width and breadth filling a jar just like preserves. Your eyes are peach pits or the coal stones of an infant I was never meant to have.
