Eventually
The world has turned in such a way, so quickly actually, that I honestly cannot make my heart remember all the reasons for it's pain in the first place.
I have the memories, stored like photographs, neatly in my brain. I know what it looked like to break up with him. I know what clothes we were wearing, I remember the day perfectly. I remember everything I ate that week. I remember the aftermath, too, in perfect Technicolor. But it's become a silent film. Somewhere along the line the sound became garbled, and so I watch my recollections spinning by like waltzing Atlanta belles, splendorous and horrible and totally missing that one thing that gave them any validity-- feeling.
Which, I do declare, is lovely. I walked this path of companionship many times, and I know now where to look for the gnarled roots that stick up in the middle, the rocks hidden around bends. I won't be tripped up so easily this time, and if there's a landslide or a "road closed for repairs" I won't have a cardiac arrest. I'll follow my map to greener pastures.
I could tell myself to keep my hair short and my bags packed...but I think, regardless of the state of the road or the accuracy of my map, I might settle in for another long while.
In other news, work is going well (on my end of it, anyway). I hope to have enough saved to travel before the year is out but I've been saying that for the past several years so don't anybody hold your breath. I've been sewing a lot for someone that doesn't really know how. I finished my Renaissance chemise, now I'm piecing together a skirt to go with it. For Halloween my dad is taking my sister and me to see the original silent-film version of "Phantom Of The Opera" at Davies Symphony Hall. They're going to accompany it with their GIANT organ. I'm quite excited and am collecting patterns to make our costumes a la Victoriana. All of them are hopelessly complicated. I'm unbelievably thankful that I live with a master seamstress. Considering that I eventually want to make all of my clothes, this I suppose will be good practice.
I can't wait 'til summer so I can lay at the river and worship the sun. The cozy charm of winter and the seductive haze of summer always seem to pass so quickly. Nine weeks and they're gone. It's the dull gray chill of spring and fall that last for eternity that give summer and winter their meaning, I suppose. I want to tattoo my body with henna-red stains. I want to brown, golden like bread on hot rocks. I want the Yuba dust and the Sierra cicadas, I want Nick's beautiful self venturing into the heat with me. I want all those hidden, unspoken secrets summer hides in its green leaves and humid air.
I want the sunsets at nine p.m.
I want a feast with friends that never ends.
Love all.
V
I have the memories, stored like photographs, neatly in my brain. I know what it looked like to break up with him. I know what clothes we were wearing, I remember the day perfectly. I remember everything I ate that week. I remember the aftermath, too, in perfect Technicolor. But it's become a silent film. Somewhere along the line the sound became garbled, and so I watch my recollections spinning by like waltzing Atlanta belles, splendorous and horrible and totally missing that one thing that gave them any validity-- feeling.
Which, I do declare, is lovely. I walked this path of companionship many times, and I know now where to look for the gnarled roots that stick up in the middle, the rocks hidden around bends. I won't be tripped up so easily this time, and if there's a landslide or a "road closed for repairs" I won't have a cardiac arrest. I'll follow my map to greener pastures.
I could tell myself to keep my hair short and my bags packed...but I think, regardless of the state of the road or the accuracy of my map, I might settle in for another long while.
In other news, work is going well (on my end of it, anyway). I hope to have enough saved to travel before the year is out but I've been saying that for the past several years so don't anybody hold your breath. I've been sewing a lot for someone that doesn't really know how. I finished my Renaissance chemise, now I'm piecing together a skirt to go with it. For Halloween my dad is taking my sister and me to see the original silent-film version of "Phantom Of The Opera" at Davies Symphony Hall. They're going to accompany it with their GIANT organ. I'm quite excited and am collecting patterns to make our costumes a la Victoriana. All of them are hopelessly complicated. I'm unbelievably thankful that I live with a master seamstress. Considering that I eventually want to make all of my clothes, this I suppose will be good practice.
I can't wait 'til summer so I can lay at the river and worship the sun. The cozy charm of winter and the seductive haze of summer always seem to pass so quickly. Nine weeks and they're gone. It's the dull gray chill of spring and fall that last for eternity that give summer and winter their meaning, I suppose. I want to tattoo my body with henna-red stains. I want to brown, golden like bread on hot rocks. I want the Yuba dust and the Sierra cicadas, I want Nick's beautiful self venturing into the heat with me. I want all those hidden, unspoken secrets summer hides in its green leaves and humid air.
I want the sunsets at nine p.m.
I want a feast with friends that never ends.
Love all.
V