I imagine the journal of a post much like the book about my favorite book that left me so unfulfilled.
Talked to Jen today about love, loss and expectation. What we own and what we're willing to lose. I'm grateful that there is someone for me to speak to that way, even if it makes us sad so often. I don't know what all this stuff is in a relationship, but I know that I choose the lesser loves for sone reason. They have to fail.
I'm not saying I haven't invested myself a time or two, but those ghosts have such long shelf lives that I question the preservatives in those pains and I rarely purchase. But, as I find with my money, all gain involves risk. Shit, this could be a long one if I let it.
You see, tonight was the first night I'm not chasing myself out of the house for sad company with relative strangers I hope to have as intimates someday. I can't help standing on the itchy little memories of loves or something like loves that started out strong and I never watered. Those people I had amazing and significant nights or mornings with and then let them get away. I have a lot of those vignettes and I play with them on nights like this, where people are frightening and my books are poor company, the television rings false and my heart won't sing a sea shanty, much less an aria.
The folk songs of my heart are always about leaving. About long road trips and motion. I'm, somewhat ironically, one of the most conservative and sedentary lovers I've ever known.
Ahh, but I promised a post about a post that will never happen and I'm home and wondering about the fiber and salt of relationships. I think it's about expectation on the yang and the yin is support. But I don't know. And why should I when I find it so easy to reinvent my wisdom over some anecdote? When I've never had a fearless love or heart. I wouldn't even know the face of courage. If we met outside a bar, both of us drunk and rowdy, I'd look straight through bravery and walk home alone.
I just wake up and feed the dogs. Lie down a while more. Water the flowers. masturbate. Stop in the bar and have half conversations. Start a letter to Mary. Leave it sit while I grieve for things she doesn't want me to. Remember some stuff. Wonder where Amy Warcaba went. Wonder if Amie Orava got married. Think about Andy MacAleese, or how Doug's doing out in Mn. Feed the dogs. Lie down to nap, get up, clean the toilet, lie down again, not sleep. Smoke a cigarette. Mow the lawn. Pull some weeds, but not enough to make a difference. Turn on the TV. Get restless. Turn it off. Do it all again.
What do I know?
I know that if anyone's ever going to love me they have to let me constantly leave. I never get anywhere, but I'm acting it out every day. Reciting my lines. Rewriting the dialog in my head and finding out what I could say to sound normal. Stable. Strong. Let me charge and retreat and not mean it. Let me posture. You have no idea how these cogs lock and that's the only strength I know.
I'll never leave Aurora and I fall in love with these streets in the summer. I get excited by the noise and the hurry and the multi-colored people on the front porches of multi-colored houses. I get sick over the churches and the resale shops. I die over the strip malls and the money creeping west from 59. The energy of the hookers on Hill Ave and the hustler selling burnt CDs at the gas station. I fall for them because they're here and because they will always be here and they will always let me down. I love this town like I love anyone; because they're here and because I know what to expect.
So what can I expect?
Mary, you are in my thoughts as deeply as you're planted in my heart. I don't care if you need it or think you need it or not. I don't care if you find this. It's here if you want it and if you don't-
It's still here. Good night, Elizabeth.