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aslantwell, the lucky ones came calling last night. i blushed terribly in the hall, because i felt swank and lovely and suddenly there were j and m making happy noises in my direction. we headed to b-side toot sweet and were given the lovely round booth at the back, j, m, abby, jackie, sharon, and i. the b-side is the loveliest place, played snz overhead and served boiled eggs at the bar in lieu of the normal beernuts and etc; this impressed me greatly. i had a big smile on my face and the bloody mary (that's a daddy of a drink! exclaimed jackie) helped that along. food and liveliness ensued and by the time i worked my way through a tall gt i was definitely drunk, and still smiling, and staring into a pair of brown eyes and thinking crazy confusion all the while.
this morning when i awoke my elbows ached; a sure sign of an overloaded liver. i could not help but feel the frustration last night when they left, after hours of porch and kitchen and couch and staring into a disconcerting pair of eyes and hovering on the knife edge of something. would you jump? i don't know, would you? i don't know, would you? and no, and no again we kept saying, but not in so many words. but there is no need to reiterate all this; when you left i heard it in your voice. but my heart still broke in pieces when you agreed it was an easy thing to send me to london.
i think i was looking for a way out, a temporary diversion, a roadblock. but not really. i wanted a smooth whiteshirted deity to save me from the inevitability of the airplane and the runway and all the rest of the unknowability in my view right now.
o the many things that my paper journal sees that will never see the light here.
the point is----the point is that really other things were happening in parallel places and i could feel them hovering close and whispering. and i did nothing about that. i sat there feeling close and far and estranged and dismantled and distressed.
i felt it was a lifetime that hovered and compressed itself into a few short hours of a single evening. london spun in my head, the dervish of love, and i wished i had been undrunk enough to find a.'s number and call. but i remembered he was sick and sleeping, and no fair to call and disturb the slumber of a boy who would worry about this even more than myself, if possible.
i have been visited by an army of possibilities. a battallion, a squadron, a rank-and-file of angels and messengers and tender impossible mercies. oh you catskinner, you blossom plucker, you motherfucker.
on the radio in the coffeeshop, pre-interview, floated swift and lugubrious and aching with ill irony that made me clutch my stomach, "my sweet lotus blossom...even though i know it's just a fantasy." driving me madly out the door and back onto windy boyleston street and up the elevator to my interview.
and it went wonderfully well, and they were responsive and upbeat and happy and impressed, and i felt i acquitted myself in the jury's eyes. they gave me a copy editing test, to fax back monday or tuesday. i am to use the chicago manual of style and the american heritage. i quiver pencilward and alert and ready to unleash the fury of my mind on it.
spoke to jenny when i was through; i told her it's mostly frustration, of all sorts. emotional, sexual, mental. and that maybe a little guilt is in order but no earth-shattering declarations or shifts in policy or similar. i merely crave normalcy, a little window of space in which to rest myself among friends before i step from the exoskeleton of the airplane into all those london possibilities. i need to rest in the lea of the stone, like in the rats of nimh; i need to shift my abode out of the wind and into a sheltered and rested place where i will not think disturbed thoughts of escape and frantic flight.
it's the alcohol that does this, i know. it opens up the lockboxes and the cloistered thoughts that cluster behind all the doors during the day. i know this, i do. but it still surprises me, every time, an offer of reciprocation and then the immediate realization, of the impossibility of infidelity. antony, i am a faithful if confused girl today, and i need your cures especially. keep me in the lea, will you?
there are three pairs of particular eyes searching and combing these words for clues and explanations. i can give you all more words and thoughts, just give me a lea, that's all i really want.
this morning when i awoke my elbows ached; a sure sign of an overloaded liver. i could not help but feel the frustration last night when they left, after hours of porch and kitchen and couch and staring into a disconcerting pair of eyes and hovering on the knife edge of something. would you jump? i don't know, would you? i don't know, would you? and no, and no again we kept saying, but not in so many words. but there is no need to reiterate all this; when you left i heard it in your voice. but my heart still broke in pieces when you agreed it was an easy thing to send me to london.
i think i was looking for a way out, a temporary diversion, a roadblock. but not really. i wanted a smooth whiteshirted deity to save me from the inevitability of the airplane and the runway and all the rest of the unknowability in my view right now.
o the many things that my paper journal sees that will never see the light here.
the point is----the point is that really other things were happening in parallel places and i could feel them hovering close and whispering. and i did nothing about that. i sat there feeling close and far and estranged and dismantled and distressed.
i felt it was a lifetime that hovered and compressed itself into a few short hours of a single evening. london spun in my head, the dervish of love, and i wished i had been undrunk enough to find a.'s number and call. but i remembered he was sick and sleeping, and no fair to call and disturb the slumber of a boy who would worry about this even more than myself, if possible.
i have been visited by an army of possibilities. a battallion, a squadron, a rank-and-file of angels and messengers and tender impossible mercies. oh you catskinner, you blossom plucker, you motherfucker.
on the radio in the coffeeshop, pre-interview, floated swift and lugubrious and aching with ill irony that made me clutch my stomach, "my sweet lotus blossom...even though i know it's just a fantasy." driving me madly out the door and back onto windy boyleston street and up the elevator to my interview.
and it went wonderfully well, and they were responsive and upbeat and happy and impressed, and i felt i acquitted myself in the jury's eyes. they gave me a copy editing test, to fax back monday or tuesday. i am to use the chicago manual of style and the american heritage. i quiver pencilward and alert and ready to unleash the fury of my mind on it.
spoke to jenny when i was through; i told her it's mostly frustration, of all sorts. emotional, sexual, mental. and that maybe a little guilt is in order but no earth-shattering declarations or shifts in policy or similar. i merely crave normalcy, a little window of space in which to rest myself among friends before i step from the exoskeleton of the airplane into all those london possibilities. i need to rest in the lea of the stone, like in the rats of nimh; i need to shift my abode out of the wind and into a sheltered and rested place where i will not think disturbed thoughts of escape and frantic flight.
it's the alcohol that does this, i know. it opens up the lockboxes and the cloistered thoughts that cluster behind all the doors during the day. i know this, i do. but it still surprises me, every time, an offer of reciprocation and then the immediate realization, of the impossibility of infidelity. antony, i am a faithful if confused girl today, and i need your cures especially. keep me in the lea, will you?
there are three pairs of particular eyes searching and combing these words for clues and explanations. i can give you all more words and thoughts, just give me a lea, that's all i really want.
