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words that tear and strain to rhyme
Nov. 23rd, 2006 10:44 pmPeople come up to me in the café now and say "hey, I hear your photography was amazing. The quality of the light." People are quiet when I talk. People compliment the color of my socks, my skeleton gloves. People ask whether I've written books or articles on filmmaking. It's extremely embarrassing, which I guess doesn't make much sense. It would be better if I'd done a good job by accident; instead, I can remember exactly why I placed the camera where, exactly how I bounced and shielded the light. I would hide if I could. I am glad that I'm dressing badly.
I thought I was going to be able to pull off Thanksgiving alone; I haven't. I have red wine and I bought some little mince pies which I hoped I would love or hate; instead, I mostly tasted butter and crust. I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I always do, but this year more than any other. I sang a Handel aria about vengeance against traitors, which might seem like the opposite of Thanksgiving...and, well, it probably is the opposite of Thanksgiving. I looked forward to writing a long post about how much I love everybody, which I do.
I feel a lot of emotions now that I never felt before - emotions which are clearly not new but are new to me. There's romantic love, of course, and my newfound tolerance for young children. There's also needing someone else - actually needing someone, not just liking to have them around. I feel like that need is an imposition, but Ciro assures me that it's not, and it is true that people in the past have been upset when they've found out I don't need them. Missing people not because I'm lonely, but because I miss them: also new.
I'm afraid of death for the first time - both my death and other people's. I was always ready before, like a samurai; I'm not ready now. It hit me about a week ago that Val is going to die before I do, which I always knew - which I promised to her, after all. But now I feel it. Jesus, Val is going to die someday. I can't imagine why.
Yesterday, it actually hurt that I couldn't touch Ciro. Hurt, physically. Not some kind of yearning ache or tension; pain. Pain not due to something I was doing, but due to something I was not doing - that's new. I didn't know that was possible. You can probably think of examples of pain due to non-action - starving, for instance, or holding a crouch for too long - but they're not exactly what I'm describing. Pain from the absence of touch. It's astounding.
I feel like a character in '70s speculative fiction: "You humans, with all of your emotions; how can such small bodies contain so much feeling?"
The wine is finally starting to work - to perform its duty of making me sentimental and euphoric. So I would like to say: thank you, everybody. I love you so much. So very, very much. I don't know what I'm doing here, but I'm glad you're with me. Mysteries are better with friends.
Red looked at the wolf. "Why did you eat her?" she asked.
"Because she was old," said the wolf.
Red looked at how small grandma's robe seemed when the wolf wore it; how the bed she'd slept in many times seemed cramped for him. Suddenly, the cozy cottage struck her as ridiculous; she was amazed she hadn't noticed before.
"You're right," she said. "I don't need to come here anymore."
I thought I was going to be able to pull off Thanksgiving alone; I haven't. I have red wine and I bought some little mince pies which I hoped I would love or hate; instead, I mostly tasted butter and crust. I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I always do, but this year more than any other. I sang a Handel aria about vengeance against traitors, which might seem like the opposite of Thanksgiving...and, well, it probably is the opposite of Thanksgiving. I looked forward to writing a long post about how much I love everybody, which I do.
I feel a lot of emotions now that I never felt before - emotions which are clearly not new but are new to me. There's romantic love, of course, and my newfound tolerance for young children. There's also needing someone else - actually needing someone, not just liking to have them around. I feel like that need is an imposition, but Ciro assures me that it's not, and it is true that people in the past have been upset when they've found out I don't need them. Missing people not because I'm lonely, but because I miss them: also new.
I'm afraid of death for the first time - both my death and other people's. I was always ready before, like a samurai; I'm not ready now. It hit me about a week ago that Val is going to die before I do, which I always knew - which I promised to her, after all. But now I feel it. Jesus, Val is going to die someday. I can't imagine why.
Yesterday, it actually hurt that I couldn't touch Ciro. Hurt, physically. Not some kind of yearning ache or tension; pain. Pain not due to something I was doing, but due to something I was not doing - that's new. I didn't know that was possible. You can probably think of examples of pain due to non-action - starving, for instance, or holding a crouch for too long - but they're not exactly what I'm describing. Pain from the absence of touch. It's astounding.
I feel like a character in '70s speculative fiction: "You humans, with all of your emotions; how can such small bodies contain so much feeling?"
The wine is finally starting to work - to perform its duty of making me sentimental and euphoric. So I would like to say: thank you, everybody. I love you so much. So very, very much. I don't know what I'm doing here, but I'm glad you're with me. Mysteries are better with friends.
Red looked at the wolf. "Why did you eat her?" she asked.
"Because she was old," said the wolf.
Red looked at how small grandma's robe seemed when the wolf wore it; how the bed she'd slept in many times seemed cramped for him. Suddenly, the cozy cottage struck her as ridiculous; she was amazed she hadn't noticed before.
"You're right," she said. "I don't need to come here anymore."
