Last night I watched Ordinary People and I was so stunned. Ordinary People is such a good movie, you guys; albeit, not very happy. Its delicate and hard at the same time and well, I teared up. Why is it that I always feel attached to really obscure, depressing movies and books and tv shows ? Ordinary People, Ondskan (evil), Shame (it was intense and I cried. Michael Fassbender has outdone himself. And he has a great body…LOL), Dark Places (movie and currently reading the book by Gillian Flynn) Mysterious Skin, Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein, Taming the Star Runner by S.E. Hinton, East of Eden by John Steinbeck, Jeff Buckley (I adore this boy), A season in hell by Arthur Rimbaud just to name a few which tug(ged) at the skin of my heart.
Summer is coming to a close (keeping my fingers crossed) and it wants to leave with a scream (well, me doing the screaming mostly) and it’s blazing hot and I just want to lie on the floor and watch it drain from me the very last ounce of my energy.
When I boarded the trolley this morning to go to the train station, the driver was like, “it is nice to see you standing at the stop” and everyone in the trolley applauded and I blushed fiercely. Every morning, by the time I’m parking my car, the trolley is almost there at the stop, so I’d lock the car, grab my very yellow jacket, and by mere coincidence (I swear), I have orangey yellow shades and lemoney yellow sneakers and I’ll be flying across the train tracks to catch my trolley as if I were like some kind of yellow highlighter streaking across the grey back ground. This morning was the exception and I accidentally became a celebrity or may be I was a celebrity all this time.
When I was coming home, a boy boarded my train and sat next to me and he smelled delicately of sandalwood and a bit of heaven. I leaned closer to him to get full effect of his smell and he looked up at me and we both giggled. I think that sandalwood could be his deodorant. I’m very partial to Paco Rabanne Pour Homme and I used to buy it for both my lovers and one of them liked it very much and one didn’t. But I’d buy them anyway.
My cats are super annoyed with me as they think I’m somehow responsible for all this hot weather and they are all slightly pouting as I won’t let them out into their enclosure to frolic and catch the birds; come to think of it, I haven’t seen any birds lately. Once my boy Pepper, who is very vocal, wanted to go out and I wouldn’t let him out as it was raining, and he kept pestering me and meowing at me and pointing to the window, so I let him out to prove to him that I wasn’t being mean. And I went into another room and Pepper comes running after me, still meowing and wanting me to go & stop the rain. I am like, “ah my pet, your mum is not that powerful”.
I am looking forward to Fall and the going back to Ballet classes and to just frolic on the cool floor and stretch at the bars and jump around the center with glee. Looking forward to Philly Orchestra and getting immersed in the heavenly music. I love Fall. I love driving to see all the pretty little color changes in the leaves. For me it’s officially Fall when my boy Bleu chases the falling leaves and brings them to me as a token of his affection.
I went out with Jack last night and sat at a table for five in a french restaurant, that exclusively played classical music yesterday night, and he assured me that I should write more and that the world would listen if I spoke… I was there before, soon after my boy had died. I remembered looking around me through my tears and secretly hoping someone would fall in love with me. It was ages ago and I have paved my ways with my teeth… constantly grinding them and tightening them.
Life is strange and always always unfamiliar and hard for me. I constantly remind myself of lovers who saved me from ending it all and funnily enough almost became the cause of it as well by dying on me. Tears and tears and tears. I have seen good and bad. Went through a lot and through it all. I haven’t learned much. But I have given up on fighting though. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I’ve thrown away all of my calculators since I’ve seen last of him. I no longer needed to measure the speed of my blood which flows in my veins when he walked towards me.
I grow weary. Who is it that said our beds are crowded with the ghosts of our past? I don’t have many ghosts perhaps, but I have bitter shadows. And I keep waking up to the sound of my own heartbeat. I am writing a poem for him in the shower. I often find myself in the grips of loneliness. Is this what love is? Or is it the myth of love…? I walk around wearing pants with pockets, collecting pieces of my own heart and putting them in the pocket of my shirt. I want to be able to look at a mirror and not see the ghosts of my past who dug a grave inside me. If I were to be a cemetery, I want at least to be a flowering plant & not a rotting coffin. Let me bloom. Let me stretch my neck towards the sky and stars and gather the warmth. Let me water them with my tears. Let me staple my skin together to house my withering spirit and not sink into the darkness.
This is not a lament at being heart broken. This is just a simple wish to gather the moons & suns & stars, and put them in my pockets. After all, pants with lots of pockets and full of wishes are really important when the nights are this cold and dark.
(Title Credit: Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918. Mind Has Mountains (No Worst, There Is None))