Spring Fever came and went with a cool breeze, and Summer Fling reared its pretty little head with little more than the standard sunburn. Now here it is, Fall, and all I've got, all I suspect to see- unless something in me changes like the leaves soon will- is this set of light bruises where my skinny hips met his. Whether it was the weight of him on top of me hoping for more against my relentless foreplay-to-nowhere, or the weight of my disinterested mind seeking solace in dreams of someone else that pressed me into the mattress and actually left them, I'm not sure, but all the same another man left some impression on me.
I pitied him for embracing my disinterest. I know he sensed my mood shift like you can tell the first Fall temperature drop. He could feel my mind weave in and out, his heart searching for mine, even if just to engage me a little more in the moment and make me change my mind about getting a little bit more undressed.
Perhaps some people think that hearts are available if you just reach in the right pocket. But some pockets are sewn up, no matter how hard you try rip the stitching. He dug around a few times, but came up empty-handed. I suspected it wouldn't be worth it so just nodded my head "no" and watched his face fall like a little boy whose just knocked his ball into the neighbor's yard and would rather let them bring it back then go and get it to keep on playing. A little saddened by his defeat for a moment, I was relieved and tired of playing too.
Maybe I need a better pick-pocket. Depending on what I wear, sometimes those pockets are just hard to find.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The So-Called Day of Rest
Sunday.
I feel funny about Sundays. Like the way you feel about a man you just don't trust, an ominous cloud in the distance, the too-quiet office, a Chinese place that serves hamburgers and Philly Cheese steaks. Somethings just not right. Some of my best days have been Sundays, and some of my worst. I forget a lot of things, really its terrible; but Sundays I just can't shake, like a fucking bad habit.
I used to spend Sundays with my ex - almost two years tangled up in the ritual of it all. Breakfast in and out of bed, NPR, showers together, conversations of futures, orange juice and coffee, music. Complete with a little afternoon delight and his isolating state of anxiety and inexplicable depression. Turns out he was just trying to figure out how to go back to his former life and didn't know how to break the news to me. I guess that can bring a perfectly good Sunday down for anyone.
So much time has passed since then; but even now I crave that ceremony in my Sunday; and yet want to bury it. I have new Sundays, new rites, but some where along my lazy day those hours spent with him rear up like the memory of a sin in church. Perhaps being a good Catholic girl has the same implications. I don't know what that means exactly as I have long attended tradition burials instead of Masses, but I continue to keep my spirituality undead (I suppose that implies that my faith is a vampire? Hmm.).
Every Sunday after church when I was a kid, we went to Nana and Granddaddy's for lunch to eat a big Southern meal prepared by Nana herself. Mac n' cheese, creamed corn, green beans, mashed potatoes, pot roast, jello pie. The cousins, all 17 of us now, played in the yard, built forts, hid fake money, learned how to win at cards. The adults talked about adult stuff until they got bored enough to teach us something cool. Just as we never lacked in sustenance, we never lacked in love, and every Sunday we surrounded ourselves in food and thanks for the many and plenty of our brood. Those Sundays are now reserved for birthdays and Holidays and infrequently occur on the actual day of rest. People pitch in and make a dish - each time cheapening the recipe with canned this or frozen that instead of fresh.
Much like the recipes, the family is changing too. People have died, are dying, live far away, somehow don't make it home again. Another Sunday ship sailed off the map. For the so-deemed day of rest I seem to find little of it.
Today, however, this Sunday, I do find comfort in knowing that I have a fridge packed with fresh okra, squash and tomatoes that I plan to cook tonight for my own Ex-Patriot Southern dinner. I find it in that I did not spend my Sunday with a man I don't trust. In that, there is not a single cloud in the sky while I sit on my porch writing this post. In that, I have an unidentified spirituality untied from built ritual that is mine and mine alone. In that, even though Sundays make me feel funny, they make me feel fine.
I feel funny about Sundays. Like the way you feel about a man you just don't trust, an ominous cloud in the distance, the too-quiet office, a Chinese place that serves hamburgers and Philly Cheese steaks. Somethings just not right. Some of my best days have been Sundays, and some of my worst. I forget a lot of things, really its terrible; but Sundays I just can't shake, like a fucking bad habit.
I used to spend Sundays with my ex - almost two years tangled up in the ritual of it all. Breakfast in and out of bed, NPR, showers together, conversations of futures, orange juice and coffee, music. Complete with a little afternoon delight and his isolating state of anxiety and inexplicable depression. Turns out he was just trying to figure out how to go back to his former life and didn't know how to break the news to me. I guess that can bring a perfectly good Sunday down for anyone.
So much time has passed since then; but even now I crave that ceremony in my Sunday; and yet want to bury it. I have new Sundays, new rites, but some where along my lazy day those hours spent with him rear up like the memory of a sin in church. Perhaps being a good Catholic girl has the same implications. I don't know what that means exactly as I have long attended tradition burials instead of Masses, but I continue to keep my spirituality undead (I suppose that implies that my faith is a vampire? Hmm.).
Every Sunday after church when I was a kid, we went to Nana and Granddaddy's for lunch to eat a big Southern meal prepared by Nana herself. Mac n' cheese, creamed corn, green beans, mashed potatoes, pot roast, jello pie. The cousins, all 17 of us now, played in the yard, built forts, hid fake money, learned how to win at cards. The adults talked about adult stuff until they got bored enough to teach us something cool. Just as we never lacked in sustenance, we never lacked in love, and every Sunday we surrounded ourselves in food and thanks for the many and plenty of our brood. Those Sundays are now reserved for birthdays and Holidays and infrequently occur on the actual day of rest. People pitch in and make a dish - each time cheapening the recipe with canned this or frozen that instead of fresh.
Much like the recipes, the family is changing too. People have died, are dying, live far away, somehow don't make it home again. Another Sunday ship sailed off the map. For the so-deemed day of rest I seem to find little of it.
Today, however, this Sunday, I do find comfort in knowing that I have a fridge packed with fresh okra, squash and tomatoes that I plan to cook tonight for my own Ex-Patriot Southern dinner. I find it in that I did not spend my Sunday with a man I don't trust. In that, there is not a single cloud in the sky while I sit on my porch writing this post. In that, I have an unidentified spirituality untied from built ritual that is mine and mine alone. In that, even though Sundays make me feel funny, they make me feel fine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)