starving on the fat of the hog
Dear Charles;
My first thought is that maybe we will one day rich enough to have our letter shared.
My second thought is that I was interrupted by a cute red head who has a deficit of self esteem to shame the government. A poignant commentary, no?
My third thought is this:
I miss you, and in doing so, I miss us. I miss the front porch of Palmetto Ave. I miss smoking with due to the gods. I miss my friends.
But I've gained a partner who's a summary and filling antithesis. He's exactly everything I'm not.
And I'm not sadder for it.
I want to be, don't get me wrong, Charles. I miss the (w)hole of melancholy of my near distant youth. But, in these times I start to think about the (a)(o)pposite. If Proust desired (and saw) the past in his tea dregs, I feel like I'm seeing my future.
Can one be nostalgic for the future? To see what will be through a past-tense lens?
I am engaged.
And I'm not engaged to the man I thought I would be.
If I could paint those two statements in more relief than a website from the 1990s allow, I would. In every way I thought I would be disappointed by a mate, I am not. He is everything I am not, and that I want to be.
Is this love, Charles? I am afraid of it. I am afraid of the subsum(a)(p)tion of me.
And I'm attracted to it. I am drawn to it. I want to be this thing, this person, that I haven't yet met.
It's like the first time we met. Or, at least, the first time I remember we met. We were "smoking" in the coffee shop of many names off College (drive, park, highway, street?). You taught me how to subsume - the smoke, myself, college - to be something I didn't think I could be, but that could be me.
And I am the better for it.
I miss you, Charles. And I'm glad I do.
The nostalgia comes from a place of happiness. It comes from the delight of frolicking through memories so sweet you can taste them through the years.
And that is the future I am creating.
I am happy.
love,
ruby
My first thought is that maybe we will one day rich enough to have our letter shared.
My second thought is that I was interrupted by a cute red head who has a deficit of self esteem to shame the government. A poignant commentary, no?
My third thought is this:
I miss you, and in doing so, I miss us. I miss the front porch of Palmetto Ave. I miss smoking with due to the gods. I miss my friends.
But I've gained a partner who's a summary and filling antithesis. He's exactly everything I'm not.
And I'm not sadder for it.
I want to be, don't get me wrong, Charles. I miss the (w)hole of melancholy of my near distant youth. But, in these times I start to think about the (a)(o)pposite. If Proust desired (and saw) the past in his tea dregs, I feel like I'm seeing my future.
Can one be nostalgic for the future? To see what will be through a past-tense lens?
I am engaged.
And I'm not engaged to the man I thought I would be.
If I could paint those two statements in more relief than a website from the 1990s allow, I would. In every way I thought I would be disappointed by a mate, I am not. He is everything I am not, and that I want to be.
Is this love, Charles? I am afraid of it. I am afraid of the subsum(a)(p)tion of me.
And I'm attracted to it. I am drawn to it. I want to be this thing, this person, that I haven't yet met.
It's like the first time we met. Or, at least, the first time I remember we met. We were "smoking" in the coffee shop of many names off College (drive, park, highway, street?). You taught me how to subsume - the smoke, myself, college - to be something I didn't think I could be, but that could be me.
And I am the better for it.
I miss you, Charles. And I'm glad I do.
The nostalgia comes from a place of happiness. It comes from the delight of frolicking through memories so sweet you can taste them through the years.
And that is the future I am creating.
I am happy.
love,
ruby