(no subject)
there's so much going on right now. but i feel like i should at least do a brief update before i present this whole thing to josh.
because that is what i am going to do. i couldn't think of anything better to give him for christmas, so he gets this tome of self-disclosure (amongst other funner, things, like some shel silverstein, lewis carrol, and the wreckers). of course it scares me immensely to show him this, but wondrously that's not because i am afraid it will make him think less of me. it's just because i don't want his feelings to get hurt by any of the stuff i wrote about other romantic interests or anything else that might be hurtful in here. but still i want to allow him to see this other part of me.
and right now i'd love to find the words to explain to him exactly why he shouldn't be bothered too much, to tell him how none of these other things even begin to hold a candle to what i feel for him, how it's like the difference between a dean koontz novel and serious literature. (you know, the shitty mass-market books can be entertaining, and are much easier to read, and even offer a few moments of insight, but that they don't even approach the level of life-changing, epiphany-inducing, heart-wrenching wonder that can be wrought by the careful attentions of a true artist). (and also to mention here that by "serious literature" i don't mean the dry stuff that puts you to sleep. i mean the amazing stuff that leaves you in awe every time you pick it up. i mean that he is the jonathan safran foer to dean's steven king. the margaret atwood to phred's danielle steele. the chuck palahniuk to every non-significant glamour article. he is my weekly world news in a world of boring and irrelevant usa todays.) (and to make emphatic note of the fact that when i talk of all these john grishams of my history, i do not mean anyone with whom i have shared genuine friendship.)
but my words are fleeing from me for some reason. i think they're tired. because i just reread this entire thing. from the first entry to the last. wow. (for the record i refrained from editing except in the case of typos and other errors.)
that in itself is part of the gift to him, because by rereading this i reminded myself of who i have been, things i have felt. so maybe i can put things into perspective. because can i really feel bummed about strippers and even baby-mamas in light of failed flings and "soulmates"? can i really feel insecure about those things when i know damn well that josh has no reason to feel that way about things in my past?
(mind you, even as i typed that, i felt a few twinges of said insecurity and pain, but maybe this has helped. maybe it'll just take a little while to sink in.)
and in my rereading i also had to recall a lot of how i felt in those times and reflect on how different it is now. like how last year i was all morose about the "fucking holidays" and now i am actually looking forward to xmas. how then i was so very alone, and now regardless of why i might be sad in any moment, no matter how stupid the reason, i know i will be held and comforted if i ask for it. that even in all but my most miserable moments now, i stll feel better than i did in the vast majority of my life then. the differences are so huge that i can't qualify them with words, at least not in the brief time i have right now to do so.
and nothing's flowing right now. unfortunately.
because i want to write about xmas, how it's the first one i'll have with 3 kids who i am rapidly coming to love as my own. i want to write about how well my family is doing right now. i want to write (more) about being in love with my best friend.
and i want to write about eliot, who passed away suddenly this wednesday.
all of the things i want to write about deserve better that those few awkward words i can force out right now.
so on that note i admit defeat. hopefully soon i will be able to do this.
because that is what i am going to do. i couldn't think of anything better to give him for christmas, so he gets this tome of self-disclosure (amongst other funner, things, like some shel silverstein, lewis carrol, and the wreckers). of course it scares me immensely to show him this, but wondrously that's not because i am afraid it will make him think less of me. it's just because i don't want his feelings to get hurt by any of the stuff i wrote about other romantic interests or anything else that might be hurtful in here. but still i want to allow him to see this other part of me.
and right now i'd love to find the words to explain to him exactly why he shouldn't be bothered too much, to tell him how none of these other things even begin to hold a candle to what i feel for him, how it's like the difference between a dean koontz novel and serious literature. (you know, the shitty mass-market books can be entertaining, and are much easier to read, and even offer a few moments of insight, but that they don't even approach the level of life-changing, epiphany-inducing, heart-wrenching wonder that can be wrought by the careful attentions of a true artist). (and also to mention here that by "serious literature" i don't mean the dry stuff that puts you to sleep. i mean the amazing stuff that leaves you in awe every time you pick it up. i mean that he is the jonathan safran foer to dean's steven king. the margaret atwood to phred's danielle steele. the chuck palahniuk to every non-significant glamour article. he is my weekly world news in a world of boring and irrelevant usa todays.) (and to make emphatic note of the fact that when i talk of all these john grishams of my history, i do not mean anyone with whom i have shared genuine friendship.)
but my words are fleeing from me for some reason. i think they're tired. because i just reread this entire thing. from the first entry to the last. wow. (for the record i refrained from editing except in the case of typos and other errors.)
that in itself is part of the gift to him, because by rereading this i reminded myself of who i have been, things i have felt. so maybe i can put things into perspective. because can i really feel bummed about strippers and even baby-mamas in light of failed flings and "soulmates"? can i really feel insecure about those things when i know damn well that josh has no reason to feel that way about things in my past?
(mind you, even as i typed that, i felt a few twinges of said insecurity and pain, but maybe this has helped. maybe it'll just take a little while to sink in.)
and in my rereading i also had to recall a lot of how i felt in those times and reflect on how different it is now. like how last year i was all morose about the "fucking holidays" and now i am actually looking forward to xmas. how then i was so very alone, and now regardless of why i might be sad in any moment, no matter how stupid the reason, i know i will be held and comforted if i ask for it. that even in all but my most miserable moments now, i stll feel better than i did in the vast majority of my life then. the differences are so huge that i can't qualify them with words, at least not in the brief time i have right now to do so.
and nothing's flowing right now. unfortunately.
because i want to write about xmas, how it's the first one i'll have with 3 kids who i am rapidly coming to love as my own. i want to write about how well my family is doing right now. i want to write (more) about being in love with my best friend.
and i want to write about eliot, who passed away suddenly this wednesday.
all of the things i want to write about deserve better that those few awkward words i can force out right now.
so on that note i admit defeat. hopefully soon i will be able to do this.