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[personal profile] concretekiss
Surely, there will come a day I'll be the only one left here, rambling on all by myself.

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Men come into the shop with bluebirds chasing hearts in halos around their heads. They are my favorite, next to the elderly husbands. Some ask me to choose loose-cut flowers for them; What would I like, they ask. Would I think *this* is pretty, they ask, as though all girls like the same thing? Or as though I have the better taste to choose? It's a cute question, albeit odd to me. Instead of arranging an armload of blossoms I would want myself to give to another doe, which is somewhat depressing, I try to gauge demeanor and what hints of personality I notice to choose something compatible, that he would not look lost holding; Customary men date ladies who like roses and classical things. Scruffy boys date girls who love wildflowers and gerbers. The seemingly affluent or debonair get stargazers and delphinium. Not sure if it works, but I'm still learning.
I don't know of another place of employment where so many men walk in lovesick. It's not usually something a man wants to admit.

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The cold traps me into the apartment, which is necessary with the superfluity of my half-finished projects, boxes of boxes of notes to self, romantic fragments. I read somewhere that your living space is a reflection of your emotional interior. If it is cluttered, so must be your thoughts. If it is an attic of obsoletes and fossils, so must be your heart.
So I've hauled off about four boxes so far of donation items and the tower grows. I must extract these things quickly, before I over-analyze. Though I only want to hold dear things dear, I'm the sort of girl who can convince myself that everything is vital in some way.

I can't bear to part with my childrens' drawings and am wracking my brain as to what I can make with them; bind them into books, decoupage them onto a hope chest. I don't know. Currently they are in three large boxes, useful as cinder blocks.

Then there is a trunk of old books of poetry and confessions, I could have a bonfire that would drown a polar bear. For the first time in the 15 years I have been dragging it from home to home it has become incriminating evidence to me. I have a horrible fantasy of my family members finding these angst ridden, bloody hearted teenage lamentations while going through my things after I have died. I don't mind the mysterious receipts to hotel rooms, broken strings of beads, cassettes tape coils of ghost voices. They keep their secrets well.

There are not enough lifetimes to accomplish the ever-growing list of resolutions I continually set for myself, even without annual prompt, in self-admonishment or fantasy. I failed miserably to achieve the only (absolutely genius Gaynun) official resolution I made last year, to the point where I have a boy's t-shirt that I sniff and pet like a security blanket (look away. I am a monster.) BUT THAT'S OK.
I am poor as fuck BUT THAT'S OK. My dishes don't match but they still hold food. Even after getting laid off from a job of 3 years, and being too traumatized to be terrified, all told this has been one of the happiest years I've had in many. In my unemployed free time I have made more advancements in painting than all my years combined, getting me that much closer to having enough pieces for my own exhibition. I've traveled to beautiful places. my children have stayed happy and healthy. I go home from my current job often feeling wondrous, enchanted and fulfilled. And I loved and was loved back.

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The last poem I read of the year.
It's about much more than parenthood to me:

Mother and Child - Louise Glück

We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are.

Some machine made us; machine of the world, the constricting family.
Then back to the world, polished by soft whips.

We dream; we don’t remember.

Machine of the family: dark fur, forests of the mother’s body.
Machine of the mother: white city inside her.

And before that: earth and water.
Moss between rocks, pieces of leaves and grass.

And before, cells in a great darkness.
And before that, the veiled world.

This is why you were born: to silence me.
Cells of my mother and father, it is your turn
to be pivotal, to be the masterpiece.

I improvised; I never remembered.
Now it’s your turn to be driven;
you’re the one who demands to know:

Why do I suffer? Why am I ignorant?
Cells in a great darkness. Some machine made us;
it is your turn to address it, to go back asking
what am I for? What am I for?
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concretekiss

August 2010

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