@font-face { font-family: “Times New Roman”; }@font-face { font-family: “Berkeley”; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Berkeley; }table.MsoNormalTable { font-size: 10pt; font-family: “Times New Roman”; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }

Flirting with all these men, many anonymous, distracts me.
Most of them can’t chat or court to save their lives.  I push their dumbness as far as I can, then say ciao.
Others are very impressively smart and wonderfully engaging.  Many of them are funny; it’s a survival skill in that environment. I’ve already found some lovely friends.
I don’t want to have sex with anyone at the moment. I just….
Sometimes I feel such all-encompassing rage that I can imagine my hair sticking straight up, and a glottal roar wanting to come from my chest out my mouth. HOW COULD HE LEAVE ME? On a cellular level, I haven’t yet completely understood this.
Sometimes the gravity of the sadness is such that I imagine myself a melting candle, kind of El-Greco-y, great bags under bassett hound eyes and saggy chin drooping into formlessness.  I think of the satiny texture of his hair. And then I want to roar again, to get that memory away from me.
My head starts to swarm with the projections of all of these men.  I get a little crazy, taking in all these personalities, trying to sort them out, all their variously abject and forceful come-ons. I know that when they take dimension they become something quite other than their electronic ads suggest.  Quite as my husband did.
Betrayal atop betrayal atop betrayal.
I have a cold and so made a lovely chicken soup that I garnished with avocado and cilantro. I am really too sick to go to the Sagittarius party tonight.  I hate not to attend a party.  My voice is deep with my cold, it sounds cool.   I gave a reading yesterday in this deep voice.  The quiet sounds crush around me crush into me as a chant.  Cars on street. Air purifier. Fingers typing.
I want to write a book called “Realia.”  Do you know what that means?
Often I say I want to write a book called such and such and then I don’t, but it’s not like I don’t write books.  I do write books! I can hold them, they take weight and dimension, they have a texture.
I changed my profile to be more mysterious and poetic than it initially was.  I don’t think people really want a lot of concrete information from the get-go.  They want to be intrigued.  It’s fly-fishing.  It’s true that there are a lot of fish in the sea.  My, what a lot of fish!  It’s too bad I’m still too freaked out to have a healthy sense of adventure. Healthy?  Let me think about that.
I seem to have lost a second gold ring.  First I took off my wedding ring, then I lost a gold and ruby ring because I’d got too skinny and it slipped off.  Then I lost another ring, an heirloom from my grandmother.  Also gold and ruby.  I have some vague memory of taking it off and putting it somewhere, and having the thought, “I won’t remember where I put this,” and surely enough I do not remember where I put it.  Is it the drugs?  The bereavement? So weird.  At the moment I am ringless, stripped bare.  I feel…plucked.
Plucked… and strummed… lugubrious harp.  How could he leave me?  The cats yowl in the foyer, chase each other about.  I put words into small boxes and words come back at me. He fucks a little goldfish in the dark midnight.  All is strange.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s