The Knitted Island

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Yeah, it’s cold around here these days.  Snow on the ground, snow in our hearts.

I have these weird feelings, these totally normal, completely understandable feelings unless they’re not, but I can’t be the one to judge.  And some of which are personal enough that I don’t necessarily feel like I can or should just blurt them out here, because, well, I’m finding very little distinction between the sort of things I address in a blog post and the sorts of things I’d email to him and things are still…fluid?  I don’t want to be talking out of both sides of my face even if I am of two minds about this whole scenario.

But at the same time, this is my safe, venting zone.

I don’t know.  With Mr. Rochester and those before and after that are of his type, I had my hand on the spigot.  And I tried to be careful about how often and how much to turn lefty-loosey.  I didn’t want to seem invested at all.  I didn’t want anyone to have any idea, because everything I felt could never happen, it embarrassed and stressed me as well as thrilled me.  But that meant never, ahem, getting my cup filled.  Always being thirsty, being comfortable with a dry throat and silence and lapping up dewdrops.  But nothing could be foisted upon me.   I could wax rhapsodic and daydream and never have to put up with shitty opinions or days when neither of us look that great or having to be fucking supportive and interested like a human being.  Now, I have to drink because I’m concerned that if I don’t, later, when I’m parched, there won’t be anymore.

And if I am too demure about shit right now, then, to take this gross analogy further, he can quite easily cut the water off all on his own.  Neither of us, at this moment, seems interested in that, but I don’t know the rules or the ways.  I am just answering the emails, freaking out about the tone that has been ratched up, how many of the seven veils I have left (probably seven and a hundred to spare).

So when I write back, I worry.  Because he knows more words than me.  Because this sort of semaphore we’re using with one another has subtext, has allusions that are becoming knit into new, shared language.  I’m not the Word Girl, we’re the Word People. I have to pay attention and be present for it.  And it was this elevated, intense correspondence, this sort of tennis match.  And this last time, I felt just chatty, just casual, just like I was writing a post in response to this epic thing.  Not like I was trying to be this coy, elegant, mysterious thing.  It was much more of an integration with my actual self.  Which is healthy, but the unhealthy part finds it very disappointing. Mildred cackles and rattles her chains. You’re already boring him and you don’t even LIKE him.  She caws.

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