“What did you want with her anyway?” he asked.
“I wanted to say hello, and I wanted to give her one of my old books. Can I give it to you to give to her?”
“No. I want you to pretend she doesn’t exist.”
Did I mention that he’s a Leo?
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There has to be some corner of the city, some cardboard box or other into which I can crawl and hide when I’m done with the world. I already know that it’s up to me to create this box. I just wish I knew where to find some fucking cardboard…
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And every time it carries me
it carries me so far and so fast
that I don’t know where I am
Though I was geographically ahead of him, we both reached for the door at the same time, and I realized he wanted to open it for me. I retracted my hand and allowed him to do this. He opened every door for me all the way to the store, and then all the way back to the stage.
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I’m calling him “Blue Bass” because we were on the high school jazz band together about a million years ago. He was always the best bass player on the band, even though he played electric and not upright. His bass was a bright, distinctive, almost iridescent, shocking blue.
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Some lifetimes ago, that tree used to mesmerize me. Its lights, its shiny hanging ornaments, its colors… it was a family ritual: the assembling of the tree. And yet last night it sat there in the corner in all its glory, like a gaudily dressed aging movie star, reaching her branchy fingers forward toward a world who had now deemed her completely irrelevant.
...read more hereI don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like a ghost moving through live bodies, weaving in and out of the workings of a world to which I absolutely do not belong. I want to see him put his arms around her. I want them to act as though I do not exist. But then, if I do not exist, why am I here?
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I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. It doesn’t make sense, what I’m saying. I don’t even want him to leave her. I just want him to pretend that I’m her and call me by her name…
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I found this earlier this morning over at NYC girl at heart and realized that I complain entirely too much, so I made a mental note to think about it and blog later this evening. Well it’s later this evening now, but I haven’t thought about it until now. (Why am I so negative?) But, better late than never, n’est-ce pas?
So here goes: The Ten Happiest Days of My Life (in chronological order or as close to it as I can manage)
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And since I think so much of you, ladies and gentlemen, I plead your advice on this decision. On the one hand I want to avoid the situation of having people whom I see on a semi-regular basis making the connection between me and some of the frighteningly candid details I include in my writing. I want to avoid having discussions (or having to dodge discussions) about my private life, my ex husband, my bellevue stay, etc. I want to avoid having people look at me once and already feel like they know me in and out. That’s dangerous in New York. And so perhaps I should delete this blog while I’m still semi-anonymous…
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