Malicious Postmodernism

lovemiss, loveempty, hesitantaccomplished

I have button in my kitchen, above the greenboard, whiteboard…  bored… boared… gored…  all this to say that eraseable thing that hangs in my kitchen and taunts me with lists actualized, in that facinating way that to-do  and i-wish lists and are never completed, never done, but tantlizing in the way they write your own never ending story.

so the button.  it makes me happy.  i have a button and a friend who stays.  I have a half-written letter whose contents are anticipated well before they are finished, much less sent.  i have a scarf yet knit, a buatifull looming pile of books  to be read, a clateing clakety head full of books yet to be written.

I am a pile of cliches a disappointment a hope of things better a stout three-setting fan.  I am a clutter of scraps and and half-finished thoughts and an amalgam of all these moments: spinning flips on the swingset of cream and mauve we dismantled who know how long ago, the lingering insults of a sixth gradge sweet-heart, an abondoned highway in spain, a trip to state college, a front porch swing, a face dented by the divedivingdove board gone awry, a treehouse, a lost friend, a firstlove drummer who spun me in the yard past curfew.  some days these scraps of me organize, they are my plumage, brilliant and striking as i set out to conquer the world.  some days they are windswept, a funnel cloud obscuring that tenuous line of reality I follow.

oh how how how this is supposed to make sense i can only gesture at weakly as if to say, if you know, you know, yaknowwhatimean.  (and when you know, you know, which brings so so much more pain in the loss than the vagarities of indecision.)

the thing i have been trying to explanation i have been trying to pinpoint, has escaped my aching explanation like the damned unwilling quarry it is.  I have all that which i never really grasped for, that which others would trade heart and soul for.  but those things I do not tell you, those things I scoff at and eschew, even often to myself i deny I want (but can you really ever deny to yourself what you want most?)  these things lie ever at the tips of my fingers, at the soft mist of my memory’s edge, dangled and denied, often even in my dreams.

Perhaps to explain to myself is futile enough, but to hope that you have had some glimpse or glimmer of what I even now can’t quite hit upon, is enough to make me abandon the writing nonsense of it to hope my dreaming sleepiness will humor me with a bite of the carrot for once.

(tomorrow is a big day.  likely i will have changed my mind about all of this in the morning.)