day dried my eyes

Oh the nights of hot weeping how I would like to have them behind me. So much else behind me now that these few things are weird stragglers, they're like the people who went to the bathroom too long and got ditched by the group and they come back all abandoned but instead of having the sense to quietly leave they think they can get the party started again on their own. The party is over, you can go home now. The rave has lost its ravey flave, the... yeah I can't top that. Go away now being my point.

What is hard about being a grown up is remembering that you can be one all the time. I don't mean you have to give up balancing on curbs because that would be ridiculous. I mean that you do not have to see that boy from eleven years ago on the street and immediately dissolve into terror that he will hurt you again, that you do not have to alert the teacher to the bully while letting tears in your voice, that you do not have to fight back against perceived authority by sulking louder.

It is funny how knowing yourself can make the same amount of things harder.

I was asked to be wise recently, whereupon wisdom fled me entirely; it is entirely true that I am smarter for anybody than for myself and will say soothingly to you to go ahead and be nice to yourself you are fine a good person lovely inside and out, here is dark chocolate here is a tender kiss, here is warm food and good books and my love, while some small part of my mind is searching for a nice hairshirt for me, something in large because I am fat, and something that is easy to put on because hideous girls who are all thumbs can't get dressed in the dark, I don't mean can't get dressed nicely but seriously, why can't I work these snaps. I need a pullover hairshirt with just that little bit of lycra. No really I'm actually fine.

I have this picture of Gustav Klimt in his garden wearing something by Emilie, and I want to learn to sew well enough to make one for me, for the three of us really, and one extra for you. I will make them in burlap and silk and soak them in wine so that when you visit you can spill over the sides as much as I do. And I will listen.

Comments

[rachel]

I think it is probably more accurate to say that you were asked to be you (wisdom and not) and to weigh in on the weight of it all - mostly because you get it - the weight of it - I mean.
"morning" made me cry.
I'll take the mix - wine-soaked burlap and silk sound like the old days. I will talk and you will listen. I will listen and you will fill me up. with you.

[patricia]

spilling with envy that I could write as you . . . pass me the hair shirt. I mean the burlap and silk though I doubt it will make listening to your words anymore sublime.

[pam]

I feel like I am supposed to be kind of sad reading this but I can't get past the sheer painful amusement of "I need a pullover hairshirt with just that little bit of lycra."