I’ve been out of sorts these past few days, a bit too unwell to properly function. Unserviceable by virtue of illness I must have gotten while at Fete de la Musique the other weekend in Malate. This is my body turning against itself, to borrow liberally from Winterson.
But really, the light drizzle that night was not entirely at fault – I had this coming, and I hadn’t been sick in a long while. This was my body waiting to implode – too many late nights spent planning surprises and goodbyes, mostly. Too much nicotine and beer but too little sleep.
Let it be known that I blame this entry on the full moon.
The art of absence
The fact is this – I never really noticed they weren’t there anymore.
… you, you need to be nicer. –the cardigans, I need some fine wine…
An odd thing entirely, considering the time I’d spent dreading that very first day without. Guess I was just preoccupied clearing my congested airways, feeling my heavy lungs – I totally forgot there was supposed to be a gap here, around this other *somewhere*. A direct consequence of something I think I should have said but didn’t.
Sometimes I think I did the right thing by holding it in. Too alike, an old girl friend would say. Too similarly headstrong and stubborn, there couldn’t have been a point in doing so. This is my brain doing what it does best – hold back, tongue between teeth and biting down. I held out. Standing here with your letter envelope, I held out silently.
Other times I think I should have just gone ahead – it may have been just a *fraction* of a second, that’s how long it usually lasts anyway, any given time. When you actually had your guard down, perhaps a little too open to actually consider letting me through.
The last time I saw that kind of gap in you, it was one lazy weekend, and we were waiting for the rain to stop falling. I couldn’t really remember what we were talking about, but it was something so casual and easy and this was not *you* because being with you was never easy, always tense. That was when it hit me – that may very well have been the last conversation where I actually felt like I could look you in the eye.
But then, how could it have gone? There were no lines in my head, just the blur of your words bleeding into your smile bleeding into your look, and the rest, just fear.
So we let it be.
I stopped seeing you three days later. By then an asthma attack had already been brewing, and I spent the day practically severely drugged and barely there. Perhaps that was how I did not notice.
… so I disconnect. –the cardigans, communication.
An odd thing entirely, considering the time I’d spent dreading the first day without.
But then now there is this. This the fifth time I am rewriting this second paragraph, and this is even odder. If anything, you were a muse. Writing about you – happy, somber, sad – had been one of life’s easier things.
There was a time I actually thought I’d never stop writing about you.
Considering the amount of time I’d spent rewriting this segment, maybe I’m slowly getting there.
if you want me, i’m your country. -the cardigans, you’re the storm (thanks tere.)
An odd thing entirely, considering how I never thought about having a day without you. Not that you were always there, to faithfully use the terms ‘have’ and ‘there’ and ‘always.’ I guess at some levels you were; in others, you were never.
But then, that’s what we were – odd. The entire connection thing, living on tangents, purposefully, carefully. It may all be a bit more non-sequitur than what is legally allowed, all these non-causa fa(ntas)llacies and the intoxicated humor and the poetry in between – this is the sum of what I see in you and me, and more often than not it’s something I like having, whether it’s going somewhere or nowhere or somewhere-nowhere simultaneously. I don’t know, I don’t care, and it jars me because usually I know and usually I care. And now I don’t. On both counts. What is it about you that’s changing me?
(See, this started as a rather sober entry about you. Considering the haphazardly constructed second paragraph, I may have to resign myself to the fact that I may never be coherent with this.)