About a billion different topics, and ideas on them, and emotions on those ideas have been bouncing between head and heart all morning, all afternoon, and all day.
Politics. Spirituality. Art. Career.
So, let’s address the topic I’m least thinking about, but most feeling for, shall we?
Romance & Friendship:
Regarding that dear friend I mentioned in the previous post, the one I once fell in love with, who is friend no more …
Well, she found the Ella Fitzgerald CD I bought in Paris. Woohoo! It comes in the mail this week. And that’s that. Her book was returned to her, my CD returned to me, a year has passed since the end of our friendship with a stab or two at reviving it in between and our goodbye has stretched on longer than our hello. Its sigh drags on within me like a toddler’s yawn at dusk. Wishing still that our relationship had turned out different, I rebel against the imminent end of my long exhale. My cheeks have gone blue. We can be friends at least, no?
Kindred spirits are difficult to let go. I’d forgotten all about that for a long while, until she came along and again reminded me. Maybe we could still turn out different? Yes, we can be friends!
Taking MYSELF into consideration is that even realistic? Passionate, Transparent, & Sincere to an extreme. ? … ? … hmm … well … if … No. It can’t be different.
I hadn’t fallen in love or anything remotely close in the 6 years before her. I’d dated and been with different girls, but there hadn’t been a “romantic-connection” for me … The 1st time I fell in love I was 19, the 2nd time I was 20, and the 3rd time was with her when I was 26.
Thus the sigh of goodbye releases its last dreaded breath.
The heart is one stupid betch. lol … Ah vell. I’m pretty grateful, actually. How else would I ever have finished the last chapter of my second book Bloody Fucking Hell ? She’s the last chapter.
I’ll end with a quote I read today and a poem I wrote about the whole shabang last year when I was just beginning the farewell.
”My message to you:
You are gone. Please come. I have your comb. I know homesickness. It unfolds like Mother’s umbrella. I dress your paper dolls, the penciled closet. I pace the bridge, your hair pin in my hair. The river is muddy. I unfold my arms and take off my shoes. I am none. Please come. I have your comb. Be low. Be no. Say no to dinner and fog.
Your message to me:
… The shift in the aim is minor. Forget something then remember something else. The loveliest of all is the unconscious—it is lively …”
– Don Mee Choi