Good and Ill

What can be said in thirty minutes while hanging off the edge of the world?

  • Forgot my laptop today.  Given it’s a 40 minute ride to work, that was a tremendous up-fuck I was luckily able to fix.
  • Dreamed just prior to that about failing in work responsibilities – although my dream set it at the clothing shop, safer, I suppose. I just wandered off when they asked me to do something. Not paying attention.  A bit frustrating that is my response.
  • Reconciling myself to the facts that my choices have consequences.  Good and ill.

Sparkle

Watching:  Tried Ripper Street and it was a bit too straightforward for me.  Fell in and out of a couple of MST3Ks and Rifftrax episodes which I love but don’t require anything from me beyond that.  Have wound up watching Edwardian Country House/Manor House which I watched when it was originally out on PBS and probably have watched again and mentioned here at some point or another.

Doing:  Not so very much doing today. I do need to sort out how to get myself exercising – I’m getting to that point in the dieting cycle where there’s been a bit of weight loss.  Just enough that I can feel a difference in some places,  while not in others.  Just enough where I see a trajectory.  The way to work on this belly is to get myself moving enough that there’s any hope of it melting a bit.  Right now, I don’t have anything happening that is intended for that purpose.

Thinking: We talked three times today.   Once whilst laying in my childhood bedroom. Strange how he can say a thing like how he misses me and I can feel it at so many different layers and points of meaning at the same time.  He misses me and I miss him and it is a patent fact given our closeness, given everything we’ve shared over the now going on eight months.  He misses me and I miss him and neither of us has any real, specific clue as to what exactly we are missing.   How can we, living so far apart, a photo here, a video there.  He misses me and I don’t know yet about what missing entails, what that longing that comes coupled to knowing.  I’ve been through the painful stretching process of missing things that were half-invented anyway.  I’m only just learning what is to connect to someone deeply.  There are no watermarks, no tracing lines.  We just do what we do as we do it.  Still, I thought with yesterday…I’m afraid I have to be vague here for my own sense of propriety…that we could just sail along being in that delirium.  That particular brand of delirium that I seem to crave of late. And today, there was kindness and sweetness and being called beautiful even without makeup, and I am glad of all of that…but…well, I suppose it would get old in its way if you just…

Still.  It is all these things at once.

Eating:  the low-carb continues.  I thought that there might have been some pizza thrown in my path this weekend, but there was not.  So I now have kept going, and I do feel endlessly better when I am eating this way.  It’s situated enough now to be able to tell the significant difference in just…brain function.  I feel more able to sit down and write a page up, I must say, than I do when I’m swirling through sucrose overdose.  I’ve felt alright, and I don’t want to give that up, so the hunt for the next two or three pounds of this weight loss continues.

 

Famous Ladies

I want to write this post with some modicum of eloquence.
I need to take the trash out and do the dishes, clean the fridge.
I need to read 15-30 pages of my book.
I need to make my bed up.
Play Civ VI
Play Dragon Age.  (Yes.  Was distracted, but yes.)

I begin so poorly because today does not come with a ready-made narrative.  Today had just strange conversations and strange glimpses of the past and strange impulses and strange behavior and I don’t know how to correct for it here.

So, yeah, the oddity of J and I, the pulling apart and smacking far too hard back together again continues apace.  I don’t know how to describe it without saying more than a public blog on the internet allots for.  There are communications between two people which aren’t meant to be parsed and reconstituted into a digital form for the masses to consume.  Suffice to say, that the doubts have not been erased, but they have been duly pacified, though the new possibilities that loom are…not without their own dangers.

Am I a kind soul that can balm and soothe these torments and concerns or am I a woman loved?  I have no clear vision even now.   We’re discussing things I don’t know if either of us want.  I forget all the time that I haven’t met him.  I forget all the time that to plan anything more than a single meeting is insanity.  But he suffers where he is.  He needs someone around and I think so many of these struggles would be eliminated.  Yet.  Where are we, and I have no responsibility to this, I am just a random stranger on the internet. Except I keep arguing as a method of encouraging a few inches less of this endless light between us that is not the case.  That we’re doing all this for a reason.  I am the mouth that says stay, that says I want to help, that means to foster sympathies and affections with its words.

He says he won’t be a parasite when we begin to talk about how I have some flexibility now.  And my heart breaks.  That’s not what I see or want or believe.  It is a time of recovery, but he needs some human support.  He needs some compassion after all he has given the world.

What I want is his ability to mind his shop so steadily that I am chosen and not grasped towards.  I want to free him from this sense that all is dire and impossible and bound as it has been in his painful past.  I want him to have the strength to buoy himself when I am not able to take the call or reply speedily.  I want for whatever time is that we’re actually together, fully together, that we’re not spending it crawling up from a shell of torment.

No carts and no horses.  Just this strange state again all come over me.

 

The Blue Flicker

I don’t know how to start. The tip of my tongue feels odd.

I’ve got to get a straw.  Start exercising.  Clean this joint up.

Because right now it is hot, and I feel unwell and this is time I could be spending reading.  I am pulling from a dry, uninspired well.  This is insipid.  This is useless.  This is battering something through that has no need to be broken.

We can’t stop until we hit five hundred and we’re not even one-fifth of the way there.

Get in my bed you said.  I laugh because it is a year if I start walking now to get there.  You say it again.  I say I would you know I would if I could.

It would just be nice to lay here with someone, holding someone.  You said.  I said I know.

Laying here in this summer heat, I consider this body.  I consider this body, the one and only holy vessel for my spirit, a case that sometimes frightens me with its tendency to mutiny and tilt sideways.  It would just be nice to lay here with someone holding this body.  This one.   Not any imaginary one that has been sprung from inside my head. How extraordinary to be recognized in your physical form as existing.  Sometimes I think I believe this.  Mostly I think it needs work.  It needs work before I could do any such a thing.

But if he asked and it were possible. If it were a matter of one room to another rather than thousands of miles.  I don’t know.  I don’t know at all.

Early to Bed, Early to Rise

What the girl always needed, what she always knew she needed was just a little bit of structure.

You, there, you, the one with the name now, the one with the body and the brain and the house with the walls.  You wouldn’t call it cruelty, but you must know somehow, innately, that I suffer for it.  And the only reason I cannot raise my fist and cry out to the gods above is that I am keenly aware that you suffer for it, too.  And the only answer is for me to step outside of the circle of salt and say I leave you to your monsters.

I think I could do it, but it would come with a terrible cost.  And I could only do it if I was told I could or should.

The crumbly crumbs! What appeared as a smorgasbord, as a unending table of affections and games and delights, marzipan fruits, pies full of birds, tarts upon tarts,  is now one plate, one cup, no saucer, and there’s dregs at the bottom and crumbs around the center.  I don’t want to get up, but I’m hungry.  I’m ravenous for something that fills the belly.  For something that mutes every mew, that cossets every cry.  I am starving for a full on declaration, a statement of fact, a true and unavoidable acceptance of a nebulous possibility forged into metal, carved from hard stone.

All the while, this unholy monstrosity is being foisted upon us.

The Cushion Dance

Oh, it is raining.  Did you ever hear such a glorious sound?  Such a marvelous sound as rain on pavement when it is dark and there is a breath in one’s body?

More Lucy Worsley telling me how the world was and what that means for how it is today.

More of a very small thing. This Q2 behavior of mine.  Knowing that yes, I have enough in the bank to cover the bills and yes, tomorrow’s payday, but I need to reconcile my account.  I need to know what I’m spending. I need to proceed with good, clean information, not maybes.

Hiccups.  So very much to do.
Sleep makes more sense than standing here.  I am doing my best.  I honestly am doing more than I thought.

 

B

 

The Raven Took My Eyes

Watching A Very British Romance documentary with the adorable and quite capable presenter Lucy Worsley and this is impacting my mind as you will see below.   I learned about Pamela (or Virtue Rewarded), which I had certainly heard of, but not how much it had changed the landscape of literature.  I never fully grasped Samuel Richardson as a key player in the same way that Austen was, so it was interesting to see it framed so.  Completely enjoyable and I shall be putting the third one on – modern romance – once I finish up my holy obligations here.

Feeling a bit winded and worn in the sort of way that one sleep might not improve.  Feeling a bit exhausted in the bones.  The day was okay.   The weight I lost is not truly lost yet. I am petrified about forgetting shit, but here we are, facing Wednesday, and the fact that things are going to have to be alright regardless of whether or not we know how to make them so.

I am also a bit keen to have my conversation.  I need just a bit of a moment to understand this.   I can’t…wait forever.  Everyone reminds me I can’t wait forever.  All of the historical romance documentary tells me so.  And if the hold up is simply not being understood, well, that’s something I can effectuate change around (there’s the corporate world beginning to slip into my vocabulary.)

Because I am thinking about the RP’er again. I can’t help it.  I’ve glanced back at those final, closing emails. The ones that said the door was open.  A door I’ve shut because I thought that I was starting something legitimate and and tangible and sincere.  And it is those things – in one sense.  On some days.  I can’t help but wonder if regardless of what either J. or I want, there’s no feasible way for us to have this happen.  The distance too great, the issues too large.  The height distance notwithstanding.  If he doesn’t want to figure out how to see me, if he doesn’t want to say it, if he doesn’t want this to check that box.  If that’s how he sees it, then why am I not available to other people even in limited ways?

I don’t know.  I am so willing, but I lean forward and he pulls back. Then I have thoughts like this, thoughts that question whether or not I am just some Mary Haskell-type figure, worrying over and wanting to help him and support him rather than a true fount of flourishing romance.  Though, who am I to say what Mary Haskell and Khalil Gibran were really truly all about.

Still.  I…this halfway ain’t enough.  But is it halfway forever or just halfway and all I have to do or say is that I need more and I’d have more?  But I’ve asked and the feeling was quash it, kill it, suffocate it. Maybe that’s not what was intended.  That’s what I’m supposed to do – find out what was intended.