Slow Gin Hope

Strange to be home at 7:45 at night.  As if I have a million hours to be free.

I did one thing today that I was holding back from doing for no particular reason aside from just finding myself unable to face the fact that it had taken me so long to do it.   That thing was not responding to the very long letter from Mr. Politeness.  I am not being very polite in return.  I need to speak to my mother and will hopefully do that tomorrow when I turn up over there after work and get what I ordered from Amazon.   This includes things of which I cannot speak as speaking of them may jinx their gifts.  If I talk to my mother, she’ll sigh and tell me to drink some wine and she’ll say Oh, daughter, and she’ll explain something about her work and she’ll explain something completely unrelated and she won’t address what I want her to address, she’ll never say what I want her to say which is that I am brave and beautiful and I would make someone’s life better and it will make my life better to try to open up somehow and that for whatever grave and unholy amount of fear that fills my vessel now, the happiness would more than overtake it, dilute it until it had no taste, no power.  She will never say these things even if she might think them, and I know in my heart of hearts that it would never occur to her to dip me by the ankles into a sea of melodrama the way in my heart of hearts I think I need, and so we adapt to what we will get.  Which is the wine and the hug and the sigh and the “I worry about you” and the “I can’t tell you what to do” and the MSNBC.  Which is where she tells me without really saying in, on the level that only a daughter can hear, that she knows me for what I am and that she’ll take it even if he can’t or won’t. While that is a raw and terrible comfort to a seasick heart in the throes of metamorphosis, it is comfort.   I will not throw that away.

We’re working on my boss’ surprise party which I hope comes together smoothly and easily and without fuss as it seems like it will.  Today was a good day, aside from a bad sandwich with honey on it for lunch, and a few strange impulses.  I got a ride in when it would have most bothered me to drive and I stupidly, idly, got nervous about driving home but it was fine.  It was great, really, and I haven’t had dessert and even though we’re getting cake for this surprise party, I’m not eating it because I’m making plans.  Slow, distant, next year plans and all of that involves me not eating that cake now.

I’m listening to Fairytale of New York, Matthew and the Atlas’ version of it, and re-remembering and kicking myself for not getting their album at the show.  You should do things, you know, because the chances of recreating that opportunity are slim to none.  That’s what she said.

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