Faux-Punk Fatigue
I feel like until I hear that little sound on the buddy list, I can't even think about anything. If she finally does, I can clean my room, I can look at my homework, I can start to get back into the swing of life up here at school. I just have to deal for these three weeks. Right now, with the snow driving outside the drafty window, the heat just burning pennies to no avail, the RealPlayer playing skippy fancy prancy music from the late 90's...I am completely distracted. And I hate it because she's probably home asleep, not giving a crap. Probably.
Thanksgiving was, basically, everything you could have expected a week at home to be like. Loud from my little sister. Paranoid from my dad. Mix of everything from my mom. Pissed and helpful from my older sister.
We ate but not extravagantly, not overmuch. I kind of felt sad about that, not about not gorging, but about how quickly it came and went. How we converged for what, 45 minutes? And then, whoosh. But what can you do?
Maybe if 45 minutes is all we can stand of eachother right now, we shouldn't force it.
...a few minutes later, we find that all is well back at the homefront. My sister's not dead. Ah, well, there's always next time.
So. It seems the Tarot is always, at least vaguely, right. Reversed Ace of Pentacles. Yipes. Bad investments are a hallmark of my life. Of course the reading is, as always, relationship based. And while it offers comfort that I will eventually invest in someone, the comfort's cold as the air tonight. Stress and Drownings. Just slip into the that thin spit of land between the hard place and the sea that just wants death. That black sea I swim and troll beneath my lids. Come be my tether, be my silver thread, silver threat, keep me sanded, landed, keep me from the compression. I think my heart could make space, supernova the weight of the wait. If you did.
I just wish I knew, in a nutshell, what the fuck is going to happen. Then, I figure, I'd do a hell of a lot more to either make it happen or not than I currently am.
Come back baby, fight off the lethargy...said you would never give up easy.
Spent a lot of this week playing FFX-2. I probably went a bit spazzy and got the book from my little sister and tried to train up all my little characters so much that I didn't get very far and I was kind of too good for all the dippy Flans I had to kill. Oh well, maybe after break I can see what those crazy Gullwing girls are doing. Not to mention being able to see the gorgeous Return of the King extended. VERY excited about that.
Went to Lore's house and spent the night for her birthday, which is where I got the idea to pull the mack out on the FFX-2. She's all married and it's nuts. They've just got a life and I'm trying to Wayne Dyer and not see it as such a separate scary energy than what is flowing through me right now. It's so settled and done. And now what one does the other has to know, has to be reported to, answered to.
I am too much a romantic. I am no Lily Bart. Right now I can't even believe that such a woman ever was.
I want letters and all that stupid bullshit. As Liz once said.
I just don't know how to ask for that. I don't know how to be open. Not when for two decades I feel like I've always begged for it and found thin trickles to lap at and only in the safety of home. I don't know how to stop being tense, cramped in the shoulders. There's always been the rib cage, always, but never the key. Love's been too big to fit in. Only trickles, only drafts, and I've build up some kind of desperate addiction that I can't take the small pieces anymore. A tolerance. A footrub this weekend and I remember touch again, the pierce through the shield, the bubble. I don't know how to smile, I don't know how to stop analyzing information, judging angles, glancing around corners, trying to be mysterious but just seeming like some distorted Picasso version of myself.
It's hard to Wayne Dyer it. To suddenly accept what has not been acceptable. It's hard to drive up the energy. I want to love someone first. I don't want to have to believe in myself first. I don't want any other fucking steps. I don't want to have to genu-fucking-flect anymore. I want to crash into it...and soon. I want the love monkey off my back.
Can't the source produce some kind of fellow who wants to fool around with a mute idjit girl who can't keep herself on this plane that much? Haven't I been good to the Source? Haven't I put up with a fucking lot?
Don't go behind my back, Source, just like a baby. Put your fucking cards on the fucking table, show me the Hermit. Kick me in the teeth, batter my heart oh Wayne Dyer's Source, and make me take a shape.
Me and John Donne are just kicking it here in FoCo, waiting for the moon to shine.
