(no subject)
I'm trying to count them like fingers on my hands.
I'm now in front of a piano
last year I was falling in love.
year before, a comedy club and a Shirley temple, of all, things, in my hands.
back three more... a museum. Boots and salt-encrusted wool.
Back two more...out of state, silent in an icy car with a broken radio
one more...I was home. Alone. I did not mind.
15 years ago, sleeping bags crowding my head, tittering girls in braids. Faded memory and current tendency towards metaphor makes me remember them as birds- black, red and blond. Melody here, Cacophony there.
at three, I was merely delighted to find that the perfect amount of frosting sticks to the back of those twirly candles.
My first, I'm told, was spoiled by a wretched aunt. It doesn't bother me. I don't remember.
A normal line, makes sense. Equally spaced ticks on my own chronology, which is the only reason they are useful- the evenness of the spacing. Otherwise, non indicative developmentally, and poor markers of maturity. All in all, these days are necessarily distorted by our mis-placed acknowledgment of them. It needs no celebration, there was no accomplishment- at least, no tangible accomplishment.
Endurance markers.
And so, I'm unable to find the joy until they have marked endurance...I know, this is nothing. 50 more of these and it will be a different story.
The self-doubt that comes with the day reminds me that perhaps my defining flaw is impatience. I'm not sure why a thing like patience cannot be evenly distributed across the entire course of our lives, but for some reason my impression is that it arrives like a gift the closer you are to the end. Now is when it would be useful. I'm even impatient about not having patience.
Call me Veruca, send me down the shoot.
Everything moves much too fast to feel safe
and much too slow to feel laudable
I'm now in front of a piano
last year I was falling in love.
year before, a comedy club and a Shirley temple, of all, things, in my hands.
back three more... a museum. Boots and salt-encrusted wool.
Back two more...out of state, silent in an icy car with a broken radio
one more...I was home. Alone. I did not mind.
15 years ago, sleeping bags crowding my head, tittering girls in braids. Faded memory and current tendency towards metaphor makes me remember them as birds- black, red and blond. Melody here, Cacophony there.
at three, I was merely delighted to find that the perfect amount of frosting sticks to the back of those twirly candles.
My first, I'm told, was spoiled by a wretched aunt. It doesn't bother me. I don't remember.
A normal line, makes sense. Equally spaced ticks on my own chronology, which is the only reason they are useful- the evenness of the spacing. Otherwise, non indicative developmentally, and poor markers of maturity. All in all, these days are necessarily distorted by our mis-placed acknowledgment of them. It needs no celebration, there was no accomplishment- at least, no tangible accomplishment.
Endurance markers.
And so, I'm unable to find the joy until they have marked endurance...I know, this is nothing. 50 more of these and it will be a different story.
The self-doubt that comes with the day reminds me that perhaps my defining flaw is impatience. I'm not sure why a thing like patience cannot be evenly distributed across the entire course of our lives, but for some reason my impression is that it arrives like a gift the closer you are to the end. Now is when it would be useful. I'm even impatient about not having patience.
Call me Veruca, send me down the shoot.
Everything moves much too fast to feel safe
and much too slow to feel laudable