When Theresia left me, I went several months sleeping alone, staring blankly at my eyelids, and unable to think of anyone else.
And then one day, I woke up not alone. I turned to see an attractive, young woman next to me, sleeping a restful and apparently deserved slumber. A pang hit. My first lover since Theresia and I felt guilt. I had gone so long with nothing but a longing next to me as a I slept. I was suddenly faced with my desire for human contact being met with just anyone. It was not love--not a sweeping feeling of completion. Just flailing bodies. Satisfaction. Orgasms. A few.
Was I suddenly over T? Impossible. A love of all ages reduced to a slut moment of weakness. No--still hurt. Still pain felt within to ensure that I was not loved back. Somehow for a few hours and a lot of wine, I had gotten over it long enough to be met with with desperately search my mental faculties for a name that wasn't coming. She didn't stay long enough to warrant tea and a scone, never mind a formal introduction.
Nor did the second girl. Or the forth. Or the young man I met outside Blarney's city limits.
Why am I doing this?
Why do I enjoy myself?
Why do I still not feel "over" as what Theresia so solemnly requested I succumb to us being?
Over.
Lovers since... lovers that paled in comparison to passionate companionship, but remained worthy alternatives to the bleak sorrow for the three hours before that I would pass out every evening I put a nightcap on.
The lovers came and went, rarely with return appearances, except the odd third audition which left me a week for a weekend, filling my brain with jealousy and fear that perhaps this repeat visitor was Theresia's incumbent. Naturally it was not, and the 3rd was charmless.
The worst became when the sex got good. More than functional--hot. deep. enrapturing.
It was easier to just assume I was swine who'd fuck Circe even with the apple in my mouth because that I was simply how I was made to be. While I could still argue that in theory, I would wake up, no sorceress to blame for my behavior, or my feelings of warmth and satisfaction. Feeling of being... happy.
And while every day kept me lockstamped in reality's flaws, I began to think that maybe I could be happy again.
That made me feel awful.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Mother & Father
I think my father and my mother loved each other very much, even if they did not understand each other at all. I think it was an arranged marriage of sorts, almost political. This family merges with this family and lives prosper. There was no underlying resentment as far as I know, but they had entirely different ways on handling their marriage.
My father was a romantic. He would buy extravagantly, almost riches of embarrassment to my mother, on foolhardy occasions, making his conquest to top the last extravagance that much more difficult. She thanked him for his pleasantries, made love with him at least enough to grant him 2 children, and behaved as a devoted caretaker.
He would write sonnets, poems, lyre tributes... all in her name. She would smile, nod accordingly, and move on to the stove's grease gatherings with her apron in hand.
When his business failed, she held onto his shoulders, grazing her fingertips against his neck, and brushing her nails gently against the edges of his hair. She comforted him, gave him peace in a time he was certain he would lose her, us, his home, and hid dignity. She held him close to her in front of the fireplace, but never said anything about how they would eventually get back on their feet (she probably assumed we wouldn't), or that believed in his struggle and how we would persevere even in the economic ice age we were facing. She said nothing of the sort.
My mother did not like to assume things would get better, or worse, or remain the same. "We will know what happens when daylight wakes us up," she said once in a very purposeful if not entirely useful way, "and until then, we can dream as much as we like." She used the word "dream" negatively, as if to say (actually not as if, but definitely to say) that when we did get that glare of morning realization, the dreams will have served no purpose. They offered no truth or clarity. They were just fantasy; they would relate to nothing in the end. It was what we did when awake that truly mattered.
The business did get back on it's feet, my father managed to ensure we kept our home away from the lenders, and their marriage continued. When the lean years went and we all got fat again, my father would repeatedly chuckle, swirl his bride around the kitchen, and comment how she kept him fighting all along and it was through the strength she provided to him that kept him going. She would nod, smile, and gently caress his face while he shouted her praises. She would soon after find herself focused on another task, such as shining the candlesticks, or making a list of grocery items.
My father would leave the kitchen, and continue on through the house, dreaming of the woman who stood by him, and how lucky he was to have her. My mother would continue with her list, or begin contemplating whether the silver polish was beginning to weaken.
My father was a romantic. He would buy extravagantly, almost riches of embarrassment to my mother, on foolhardy occasions, making his conquest to top the last extravagance that much more difficult. She thanked him for his pleasantries, made love with him at least enough to grant him 2 children, and behaved as a devoted caretaker.
He would write sonnets, poems, lyre tributes... all in her name. She would smile, nod accordingly, and move on to the stove's grease gatherings with her apron in hand.
When his business failed, she held onto his shoulders, grazing her fingertips against his neck, and brushing her nails gently against the edges of his hair. She comforted him, gave him peace in a time he was certain he would lose her, us, his home, and hid dignity. She held him close to her in front of the fireplace, but never said anything about how they would eventually get back on their feet (she probably assumed we wouldn't), or that believed in his struggle and how we would persevere even in the economic ice age we were facing. She said nothing of the sort.
My mother did not like to assume things would get better, or worse, or remain the same. "We will know what happens when daylight wakes us up," she said once in a very purposeful if not entirely useful way, "and until then, we can dream as much as we like." She used the word "dream" negatively, as if to say (actually not as if, but definitely to say) that when we did get that glare of morning realization, the dreams will have served no purpose. They offered no truth or clarity. They were just fantasy; they would relate to nothing in the end. It was what we did when awake that truly mattered.
The business did get back on it's feet, my father managed to ensure we kept our home away from the lenders, and their marriage continued. When the lean years went and we all got fat again, my father would repeatedly chuckle, swirl his bride around the kitchen, and comment how she kept him fighting all along and it was through the strength she provided to him that kept him going. She would nod, smile, and gently caress his face while he shouted her praises. She would soon after find herself focused on another task, such as shining the candlesticks, or making a list of grocery items.
My father would leave the kitchen, and continue on through the house, dreaming of the woman who stood by him, and how lucky he was to have her. My mother would continue with her list, or begin contemplating whether the silver polish was beginning to weaken.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Treatment
You learn to not use the word "anxious." They have syringes for that. If you say "impatient" or "concerned," they generally give you the soothing voice. But not the needle. Frankly, they do not care.
They know what they are doing, and you don't, so it does not matter if you are ready--you feel--to go. They will simply ask the same questions about frequency, consistency, texture, and shade. It's a personal experience laid out on charts swapped between shifts.
Some use their names, they introduce themselves--expecting no doubt to establish friendships for life or six hours. But they do it for relaxation--calming the patient, so they think they have control. At any moment they can shout out "Sarah!" as if it's a beloved friend that may or may not be several feet away. It's a fallacy--you are powerless. Pipes sprout from your backhands, gowns of indeterminate size and fashion replace familiar fabric, and you are checked upon. Eternally checked upon.
They do not like each other. The same stay with the same; different ranks exist and the Betweens mumble--some more loudly--"Why didn't she..." "Why did they..." "Who do THIS?!"
You get old in a hospital bed. Instantly, your body weighs down, your skin weak. You are suddenly feeble, as if the simple willpower of the Bed knows better that you must be in dire need of rest. Insomnia persists, but you hang there motionless, ready whenever the nightwatching god decides you can close your eyes, until they need you again.
They know what they are doing, and you don't, so it does not matter if you are ready--you feel--to go. They will simply ask the same questions about frequency, consistency, texture, and shade. It's a personal experience laid out on charts swapped between shifts.
Some use their names, they introduce themselves--expecting no doubt to establish friendships for life or six hours. But they do it for relaxation--calming the patient, so they think they have control. At any moment they can shout out "Sarah!" as if it's a beloved friend that may or may not be several feet away. It's a fallacy--you are powerless. Pipes sprout from your backhands, gowns of indeterminate size and fashion replace familiar fabric, and you are checked upon. Eternally checked upon.
They do not like each other. The same stay with the same; different ranks exist and the Betweens mumble--some more loudly--"Why didn't she..." "Why did they..." "Who do THIS?!"
You get old in a hospital bed. Instantly, your body weighs down, your skin weak. You are suddenly feeble, as if the simple willpower of the Bed knows better that you must be in dire need of rest. Insomnia persists, but you hang there motionless, ready whenever the nightwatching god decides you can close your eyes, until they need you again.
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