Posts Tagged ‘other people’s words’

and if we don’t hide here, they’re going to find us
and if we don’t hide now, they’re going to catch us when we sleep

i have changed enough in the past couple years that i can look at my past self with a devastating sense of dramatic irony.  in the syndrome of my self, a few symptoms appear chronic.

item 1. i am indecisive.
item 2. i am too trusting.
item 3. i am afraid of everything.

where is the rationale? where is the youthful trauma that conditioned these behaviors? as a child i was sanguine and brave.  i thought i’d made great strides in the last few years, but maybe i’m just rearranging myself so that the worse pieces stay hidden behind the ones that are steadier.

a depressing realization: just as i can look at my past actions with greater wisdom, i can recognize my own present-day folly, too.  i have the capacity to realize when i’m making the wrong decision.  just not the will to turn around and make the right one.


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for an otherwise reliable person, i can be awfully unpredictable.   a drizzly afternoon, a ray of sunshine.  they’re like death and birth to me.

one sip from the cup of human kindness, and i’m shitfaced.

just laid to waste.

every time there’s the slightest change, i’m convinced it represents a new status quo.  this is pretty human, but it’s a trait i find irritating in others.  i’d like to think i know myself well enough to not only recognize it as a shortcoming, but to rationalize my way out of it.  that does not seem to be the case.

dammit, i’m no good at talking myself out of things.

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i’m returning in force lately, aren’t i?  maybe it is just the time of year.  (or maybe it’s the time of man.  i don’t know who i am, but you know, life is for learning.  apologies to joni mitchell.)

this beautiful offering from paul simon got a shoutout from me around this time last year, but for a different reason.  and now there’s no reason at all, just that i am immersing myself in some music i haven’t heard in a while.

for reasons i cannot explain,
there’s some part of me wants to see graceland.
i may be obliged to defend every love, every ending,
or maybe there’s no obligations now.
maybe i’ve reason to believe we all will be received in graceland.

and it’s been nearly two years since i heard christine mcvie wrap her voice around these words — not since a really lovely night in a part of my life that’s now passed — but i am immeasurably sorry that i let the song slip away for so long.

and the songbirds are singing like they know the score
and i love you, i love you, i love you like never before.

there are also a few that i’ve studiously avoided.  i’m going to try to stop that, because it’s bad for me.

do you think you could
answer all the questions in the world with just one word?
i think you could.

and if you do not want to see me again, i would understand.

i’d say my music library qualifies as “pretty badass.”

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after a two-week hiatus in the neverland of home — that place where, robert frost reminds us, “when you go there, they have to let you in” — i am sitting contemplating the eve of my life as a Real Person.

(you must understand what a momentous event it is for me to lift my embargo on capital letters.)

it has been a peculiar couple of weeks.  i have eaten far more fat and sugar than my poor body is accustomed to.  i have been utterly enchanted by two men named john (adams and updike).  i have sent and received several wanton text messages.  i have allowed myself the understanding that many things that were once my sole responsibility are no longer even my concern.  i have become the owner of a car, an umbrella, and a phone that is smarter than i am.  and i have allowed myself to be intimidated, just a little, by the prospect of leaving neverland.

but i’m convinced that Real Life, unlike my phone, is only pretending to be smarter than i am.  lots of people do it, and i’m smarter than lots of people.  i can write checks, pump gas, cook, and wait in line.  i can do lots of other things, too.

on sunday morning when i wake up, i will make coffee, and i will check my email, and i will shower.  it will all be Real.  and it will be no different.

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item, two lips indifferent red;

item, two gray eyes with lids to them;

item, one neck, one chin…

item, one inflated sense of pride; one overwhelming conscience; one martyr complex.

item, one damnable eidetic memory.

item, two ankles, two knees, two wrists, two shoulders, ten fingers, ten toes, with sundry sprains and hyperextensions.

item, one heart, with sundry sprains and hyperextensions.

item, one disposition of occasionally foolish optimism.

item, excessive willingness to forgive.

item, two arms, soft and strong and profoundly powerless.

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it’s damp outside, and gray, and lots of things that i would mind if i weren’t so keen on sitting inside with sugar cookies and watercolors and wine.  although my room is empty, there’s certainly the feeling of company.  the voices in the hallway, and the unlatched door, the soft warm memories sunk in this fleece blanket. i find myself so overwhelmingly fortunate to love a few people who can know everything there is to know about me.  not always right away, but– everything, eventually.

(and your heart was beating faster than cars drive

through montana every night)

and between the pieces that i can confess to other friends, and family, and even sometimes near-strangers: god, if only we could average out all the love in this world.  it feels extravagant to be so well taken care of.  …the near-strangers, that’s an interesting piece.  i said once to someone i loved that i don’t consider myself a trusting person.  and he said he disagreed, that he was surprised, that he thought i was very trusting, maybe even too trusting.  –because i had been, with him.  because he had made it so easy for me to trust him after the briefest acquaintance.

(is your heart still beating faster than cars drive

through montana every night)

and there is something wonderful and loving and human about honesty.  because people are just people, as regina spektor would tell us.  and sometimes those people also hate mushrooms, or prefer gin martinis, or like to be the little spoon.  i love that.  i love the acknowledgment that we don’t have to bumble around in artificial zones of secrecy.

(cause my heart is beating faster than cars drive

through montana every night)

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i sometimes wonder what becomes of the little pieces of paper that in context make up a life, that out of context reveal only a glimpse of an otherwise unknown person.

well, this is what becomes of some of them.

i am struck.

dryer ask out


breakuphet maleresign


wash the panmonsters

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