I tend towards the meta in all my talk posts; it's part of the reason I call them that - it is a remnant of the days when I thought I could be clever.
I am reaching a point in my life where most things tend to do a lot of looming over my head: my age, my lack of a job, my inability to make something great of myself, my refusal to be married. This is the first time I can remember, however, when mild-panicky reactions and feelings of inadequacy haven't sent me scurrying to words. Well, it is now, but it hasn't been for a while. I am afraid to look at the dates for fear that realizing exactly how long it has been might actually cause irreparable brain damage.
I went by The Cat's home today, the virtual one where I first met him. I miss the way conversations with that person made me feel, as though there were secrets that I was privy to by virtue of things I had done inadvertently; as though I was smarter, and funnier, and wittier than so many others because someone seemed to see me that way.
The odd thing is that there is someone in my life now who loves me very much, but in whose company I never feel anything extraordinary about myself except for the fact that I am very loved.
I realized today that I have grasped very few opportunities to talk about him, my mystery boyfriend: this person with whom I have so much in common and so little; about whom I am asked every day and about whom I return noncommittal platitude-phrases (potter indian michigan kannada jewish 28 5'8" ) because I haven't given myself a chance to talk about him with myself yet.
There isn't much I can say about him without feeling as though I am violating spaces; I have not yet found a way to talk of someone without imagining them in the audience as well.
(It was something that made it easy with the others I spoke of and wrote of, the fact that I thought I knew the way they read things... Of course sometimes I was wrong in the readings of those readings, and that was when I was visited by my dear friends confusion, embarrassment, and shame (good times, good times) and after that it was just splendid fun for all concerned, of course.)
I ramble. I think I can vaguely remember a time when my posts had points, and beginnings and ends and a couple of clever sentences somewhere along the way, but for now I am willing to wait and see what getting back to writing feels like.
2 comments:
It's uncanny how to write what I'm thinking.
I know *exactly* what you feel.
Someone as splendid as you? Games and words have mostly overtaken me, the eggshells have turned to powder, and I have comprehended loss enough to not want it again, and yet. Better spurned than not be spurned at all? Life probably makes one wish this way at times.
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