November 17, 2003
Deception
Tonight I find that I am shy. I wore a big sweater, white, wooly, to hide this from the not-so-prying eyes of the students on campus. I should know, by now, that they do not care about me, about what I am wearing, about what I am thinking, that I had brussel sprouts for dinner last evening. Though I have been reading bell hooks' All About Love, inclined to agree with her as to power being the order of the day, I must argue, at the moment, that it is instead apathy.
I am finding it hard to care, anymore, about anything.
We swept underneath of the bed and my dreams have been strange since. What ghosts, what half-formed thoughts, did we uncover with vaccuum and Swiffer mop? Hardwood floors will tell. A mess is more easily covered by a rug, here, than a proper cleansing. What remnants of mess am I percieving?
I felt comfortable enough to call you on the phone this afternoon, while you were at work, no less, just to hear your voice. Those peppering snowflakes of stress, appreciated for their place in the season and daily life, have been coming faster, lately, piling upon my heart. It didn't help, to talk to you, but it helped. You told me a silly story about your co-workers, told me your plans for the evening. I wanted you to say you loved me, before we hung up, so I didn't say it first.
But then I hung up.
It is strange how easily love is tied up in knots, tied up in responsibility and duty and priority. Who do I love most? At this moment? For all time? Why must I burden the work of love, a pleasurable task, with my own doubts about its effectiveness, its necessity, its purpose?
Can we hope? Can I hope, ever, to be a good mother when I cannot even speak to my own? Can I hope to be a wife when I am not sure what the job entails, when I know that I do not see it as a job at all? Must I live within the laws of patriarchy? Do I fear them because they are here, in the heart of my world, or because I am naturally inclined to fear?
I know you love me for all the reasons shining from your eyes and conveyed from your hands. I know we had that talk about marriage. I know that your need for freedom does not mean mine limited.
Can you hope to be a good father after your treatment at the hands of yours? Can you hope to be a husband, can you hope to be mine?
Do you trust me?
I want my sweater and sheets and yards of scarf wrapped round my face, breath wet against the wool, stolen. I find that it is easier to sleep, to read my books for class without actually attending, to battle wits only with myself, and, occasionally, you.
Why do I take it so personally when we disagree? I should fall to my knees in prayer that we can, and we do, and that I manage to let it go.
I don't think you were ever holding on.
astera at 11:39 p.m.