SOmetimes I think that every moment where the present is consumed by the past is one stolen from the future.
maybe I shouldn't be so hard on myself. Maybe I shouldn't be so goddam metaphysical.
during the weekend Abel and I dragged each other into bed for a night of sobbing silly breakup sex. Silly. Well. Stupid I guess. In so far as sex can be stupid, whihc its not, but it is. The denoument of our 7 year tryst had fizzled down into a pathetic wilted fragment of LBD. So this was the breakup sex we were meant to have. I guess I kind of rehearsed it with the blue angel. Except with the blue angel, i didn't wake up with my jaws aching from grinding my teeth so hard.
i can't tell myself that it would have been better if it hadn't happened, because it was sex, and I wanted it, and I love her, and I shouldn't let her near me again, and I was only just recovering right and I shouldn't let her undo all the good hard work I've done, and I'll only feel ten times as bad in four weeks when she leaves and goes back to france to spend time with SLUT.
'she doens't love me' I tell myself, and my flesh protests. Oh god, what a fight this is. no wonder stone butches turn all granittey.
apart from the headaches since, the indigestion, my curiously shrivelled libido, can someone tell me why this is so bad? My hangover lasted all weekend.
I sagely spent part of the weekend with NBL. Magic hours langorously lapping at Lattes, while teasing cakes apart with our forks. She chatted incessantly, delightfully. Me, I must have seemed dumb. all I remember was studying her freckles incessantly. her jaw, her smile, the way she moved. She also played monkey magic as a kid. fuck. I wanted to impress her. I could so, so easily fall in love with her, and I smile just to think of her. And yet I mentioned Abel and tears fllooded my eyes and fogged my glasses and I hated myself for being this trapped in the past.
Maybe, just play it softly. Be a mother. Let abel in, hang out with her, do the cuddly ex-intimate friendship codependancy things, and then let myself fall apart when she leaves. I fight my libido, and it shrivells back into a hard little seed inside me.
last night I had nasty nasty nasty nightmares. dozing at dusk. racked by stomach cramps. I've got very bad demons and I don't know how to handle them at all sometimes. Seek whatever comfort I can, even if its pathetic, unreciprocated, inadequate, dead, deadening. Even if it kills off the future.
I'm sick of running. I've been running from abel, running from this house, running from my feelings. Fair enough because all of the above have been abjectly shit house. It makes reading a bit hard. Writing, you know, (the serious tomal stuff) impossible, painting unthinkeable.
to sit still, and be mired in my self. to sit still and risk stillness. To sit still with the past, the present, and a future not present, is just hard. I'd like to spend more time here. I'd like to work on my tome. I'd like to cook for myself. I'd like to grow strong through this. I'd like to paint.
running around, going dancing, seeing lots of people and not eating very much, I apparently seem more 'functional', more coping, more attractive. the thin body enteres into discourse, whereas my mounting elvis dimensions of the previous 2 years largely escaped comment. Stillness and softness, was also an embodiment of what I was doing; thinking, refelcting, opening up. Now i feel like a steely eyed manic freak.
I'm not having a very good time am I?
Blogging as Art: Life Writing Online
2 weeks ago