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By Misti Date: 2004 May 09 Comment on this Work [[2004.05.09.10.05.8468]] |
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I'm still writing the novel of us. I could have written five novels by now but you keep coming over, loving me crazy, loving me dizzy, loving me silly until writing is the last thing on my mind. I have a stack of new books I haven't even skimmed. I have memories and mementos to discard. I keep telling you I have to take care of business. I do the bare minimum, reserving my energy for painting my fingernails and toenails blue to match the dress you bought me; dancing with you in my apartment and at Fiesta's; going to the one-hour at the Wal-Mart that is closing down to turn in another roll of film; buying groceries alone 'cause you won't help me shop, buying Flintstones push-ups because they remind me of our Reckless Rainbow sex on the afternoon that it rained; holding you after sex, tickling your back; sharing a shower with you even though I'm afraid of slipping... I keep skipping ahead to how I would love for it to be...you and me in a little house or apartment, each of us spinning in our own creative spheres, then coming together to share and praise and amaze for days. Me with my collages and poems, you with your short stories and screenplays. I dream up a cozy haven, a patio with a grill and Chinese lanterns and a backyard and some kind of black dog...a bedroom with a bed big enough for us and our books and maybe a kid or two on a Sunday morning after pancakes and coffee...a bathroom with a big garden tub for candlelit champagne bubblebaths, you and me making love all soapy and languid to Stevie Ray Vaughn/Billie Holiday/B.B. King...a den with a kick ass stereo system for parties, with my art and maybe a Dali or two on the walls... Time crawls because right now I am working harder than I have ever worked before on myself. I don't talk to my family anymore. I am a 31 year old orphan learning how to clothe and feed myself and not be ashamed or blamed for anybody's misery. Mother's Day is just another Sunday. I could cry but I won't. I would rather laugh at myself and at you and our ridiculous situation. We are a couple of five year olds set loose on a fucked up playground. The swings are all broken. How can we hope to fly? Because we try so hard despite the odds, because we limp along singing "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Paradise By the Dashboard Light," because we fight and then wink and kiss it away, this love is the best playground I've ever found. And I don't mind if you stick around for awhile. And you know by awhile I mean forever. |