...I hope you don't mind/ That I put down in words/ How wonderful life is/ While you're in the world....
Good morning, it's Friday, and I, a remnant from Thursday, sit wrapped in a Nothing dress and yesterday's sweat and chlorine, thinking that I ought to go to bed. Sleep? Write? -as if I have a choice.
I think of tomorrow, when I see again someone I had once given up hope of ever seeing again. His clearwater eyes hook me, the shape of his hands enchants me, his prose makes me laugh or breaks my heart, and I count myself fortunate that he still walks the planet.
Fan mail for Thursday's entry..... more than one person chooses "struck by lightning" as a cool way to go, trumped only by "in bed with a 24 year old, at age 56" which seems a little young to me, frankly. The concept of dying by misadventure retains appeal, years after the song's faded from collective consciousness.
Also hate mail, which turned out to be "hurt mail", to which I responded with my usual nauseating upbeat Pollyanna ("makes a gerbil wanna puke," quoth a cynic)lovingkindness. This damaged soul lodges in my psyche like a bent nail. Far away strangers now tear me to pieces, keep me from growing the brittle edges I need to be sarcastic or funny.
If that's my role, bring on devices of torture. Rip me open often: I will take my shredded bits of heart and squeeze them until they drip poetry upon these pages.
This evening's rain sprinkled on me, wet sweetness from the sky, on cheeks and lips and eyelids, on palms and the tender bit of skin inside my elbow.
Too stupid to come in out of the rain. Too something.