September 16, 2003
Cradle
So. Ahoy. How'd you like to scrape the barnacles off of me rudder?
You have no idea how difficult it was for me to say 'me' there instead of 'my.' I am an English Literature major, you know.
I'm drinking warm green tea (with ginseng and plum juice) and contemplating how I am going to spend my evening. After a moderately fulfilling practise for 'Footloose', wherein I got to leave early as I am a non-entity, I do not feel so bad. I skipped two classes this morning in order to sleep, though I did so fitfully. Dreaming, of course, about my mother. Again.
Serves me right, I suppose, for being such a slacker. Does it matter that I post doubly more than any one else on my listserv for Women's Studies? Does it matter that I outline the chapters in Anthropology in addition to any notes we take in class? Not a damn bit. I feel guilty about everything.
Including the things you feel guilty about. Hell, maybe even the things you don't feel guilty about, but should.
I am anxious for my birthday, for the true blanket of autumn to settle around us in all of its Red-Yellow-Orangey-Briskness. I am teased by the mornings, begging for me to wear a sweater only to have to discard it a few hours later when the sun is high and hot.
Speaking of weather, I realized that it was most certainly the catalyst of my memories Sunday night, and my subsequent departure due to the persistence of those feelings. I told Mike that I felt I was caught in a time warp, lying in his bed at two o'clock in the morning. I remembered what a painful thing it is to get up, throw one's clothes back on, pull at lips and limbs up until the last second before I am closing the door behind me... and then the car is cold, my mind is wandering away from the road and the radio, and I can barely percieve the distance between stop lights, the colours pulsing in my brain. It's easier to pretend I'm in some sort of movie, and I'm somehow glamorous, instead of a mess.
I should call him, for the sound of his voice, thin though it may be coming through the phone line. Sometimes, if the phone is pressed close, warm enough, I can almost imagine his hand against my cheek.
astera at 8:19 p.m.