Why when it's raining do I think about the people who can't love me or the people I can't love
Why is there even non-loving
Maybe cause I was in a class of special eds today and they weren't as bad as last time. I don't like the room because there can't be anything on the desks like pencils and certainly not scissors, but there can't be any personalization either, it's more a barracks than a room even though the teacher has tried to make it cheerful.
The p.e. teacher came in and bounced around and said she remembered me but I am a whore to schools I don't know which school we saw each other in last, but worse than that I found out I can't dance at all or clap in rhythm everything felt too fast and I felt Bob Fosse crying with shame for me in the corner, like putting his whole fist in his mouth to avoid coming over and punching me
There's nothing like a dead dancing muse choreographer haunting you in a special ed p.e. class
But back to the love issue
I'm good at loving the kids. And pretty much the animals. And I can love a big hilly green field and the Maryland waterways. I can love wearing socks.
But when I see people I have loved and who continue to not love me, it makes me mad and confused. My friend came from another state to visit and I've known her a long time and from day well not day one, let's say day 28, I realized this person did not get me, would never get me, does not deserve me
But mannnn I just worshipped her. Like as if I picked up someone's grocery list that was in a gutter and I decided I had to get all those things on the list and it wasn't even my LIST but I had to GET THOSE THINGS
These are reasons I should be looking for a cabin in the woods, with plenty of space, and I can keep writing to keep my brain from exploding, and maybe I'll learn to preserve jams, or are jams already preserves also why is perverse almost exactly the same word as something as yummy as blackberry say preserves.
It's perverse
Yes, thank you reader, I KNOW I will get through it. I know you are lobbying for my freedom of mind and my unclenching of the beach sand gripped in my fists. I know you pat my hair and laugh at my jokes and have all been there for me feeling your own deep feelings of loss or anger or too much mud accumulated in your own lives. I know that's why I still write, to be amongst your thoughts, milling around barefoot there with a martini glass at a party in the 60's in a rainy beachhouse on Long Island where Neil Simon or Truman Capote might be lurking.
I think having these two striking blonde babies graduating in a few months, why-- these old children that still go on easter egg hunts, because they are a non-age, they aren't specific about growing up-- but their education forces us to face the facts that they are getting number high and they are no longer diapered and in my backpack on a trail walk. Even though they are, always, secretly with me. I also did not make that happen, like with my errant friend, it just is.
Loneliness is not the right word but it feels like vast unopened amounts of mail, these feelings all bobbing around in my central park pond. I love my life, dammit, I wish there was more of it.
I'm going to the doctor next week to make sure I'm not dying mostly just to ask vague questions like why does everything hurt? Am I sore or broken? He is such a nice man and he always has on nice shoes, and a gentle voice. Maybe I can go live in his trunk til I feel better. He might tip his head sideways to consider that, but he will write that prescription. He's barely using his trunk, he'll say.
Also I was going to write that he would cock his head but this is not that kind of blog. Just want you to know I'm always protecting you.
The rain stopped for now so I can stop being melancholy, the pressure is easing so I can eat a few carrots. Thanks to all of you for listening, trapped here, looking for solace.
Blogs are for writing whatever the cock you want, so here's to feelings that surf in and out on rain, and for noticing them and easing them into your heart with a colorful frozen yogurt spoon.
