Frangipane

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I’m vacillating on the title because I think that somehow surely, I must have named a post Hiccup at some point.  I’d like not to have duplication if I can avoid it.   I’ve just been eating maniacally and caused myself a case of them so they’re on my mind.  We’ll see what we end up with, I suppose.

I feel awkward, let me say at the outset, sharing this.  I feel like it’s nobody’s business, but given how much of my brain space it now occupies…I’m forgetting the hiccups entirely.

So, he needs a name.  He’s as worthy of a name as any of them, but maybe, I think, a name is a sort of jinx.  A name says that he fits the pattern and I’m fairly certain, as of this moment, he doesn’t.  Now that I’ve thought about it, I suppose I’ll stave off the naming until anything about any of this gels.  Because who knows?  It feels like some sort of collapsible angel food cake.  We were always warded off stomping in the kitchen while those baked. Last night, he sent me a long, long, long letter – 9/10ths of which was a lengthy, if passionate, if extremely well-written, if clearly meaningful to him, delineation of a song’s meaning.  A song I referenced in some throwaway comment along the way and I have to confess, having felt the rhythm of  the dance I thought we were dancing, this felt a bit confusing.  After my coy little response, I guess, it felt frustrating.

He’s tricky in that you can’t just casually reference and play with language because he has the skills to interpret down to a hair’s breadth everything we’re discussing, to find quadruple entendres, to be so clever, it catches me off-guard. I’m used to having to pull the lead in this regard, to feeling safe that I can always slip behind my own screen of smoke.   I like it, but I don’t like being on the back foot.  Feeling like I have to compete to pass the test.  It’s just another thing about the situation I can’t control.

Then, of course, another letter came, a brief apology for making me endure such a lengthy bit of text, and expressing hope that I would write something that I was interested in.  Which now has made me feel like there’s nothing that I’m interested in at all.  Nothing I’m intelligent enough to write a treatise on, anyway.

So, I’m letting it lie tonight.  I don’t think I have all my best wits about me since I think my body’s decided to assert itself and I feel sub-par.

Snow is supposed to blanket us this weekend, keeping me away from my planned Writers Group Pizza Party, so I’ve decided that my second monthly deviation will be Pizza and it will happen aggressively tomorrow.  Having eaten steak and salad and another caffeinated shake and a whole eggy-cream cheesy low-carb mug situation, I still feel a gnawing.

Maybe some Tori Amos will help.

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