Wondrous Clever


RIP George Michael.

2016 doesn’t allow for you to generate full-throated platitudes as it winds to a close.  It just reaches out and reaps another spirit we need here with callous contempt for the suffering the world already is irradiated with.  All this on Christmas Day.

It is a sour note after a genuinely pleasant day.

A Christmas that just involved food and tv and family and kindness, and for the most part, there was no need to perform.   Just sit around in my pajamas and float in the middle distances.

I continued to have a few messages exchanged with the guy – mostly about the sous vide and cooking.  I have a bit more illumination about his life, tried to offer a bit of illumination on mine.  I know it’s not an easy day, especially if you’re alone.  I have this idea of how nice it would be to have my own person here to tell about our traditions and who would have some vague expression of interest about it.

I don’t know…the tension exists, but it’s hard to sustain it while talking mostly about cooking and TV and feeling completely as though I’m fucking it up.  Like…I am weighing every silence and pause and the things I’ve said and what is said outside of me and not to me.  It’s a very screwball sort of crush wherein the performance I hate is required. Dancing along the line of, hey, I’ll reply intently with sincerity when maybe my first thought is not to say anything and then, silence when every giddy tendril in me says to make the joke, make the assertion, blur the line.  I am so unaware of how to do this and the uncertainty if this is a tree not to even bark up is significant.  Bothersome.  Not a barrier, but a hitch.

And yet, I do have this ridiculously strong feeling of fondness.  Like, I suppose this is so because I haven’t impeded its development, in fact, I’ve insisted upon it, wished for more of it as a novelty.  It’s this sense that I’m comfortable in some way that I have not earned at all.  Just comfortable saying many things.  And now I wonder if I am just an irritant.  Irritant, perhaps is not it…I think I just don’t know how to handle the emotions that come out of giving a damn about people who are not friends and family, who I can’t serve or please or track.  Manipulate, maybe.  Maybe not.

It has a certain Stray Italian Greyhound vibe, which is curious, as one of my lovely gifts this year was tickets to go see Vienna Teng in a few weeks.

So, I am sort of helpless to do more than time can do which is to spread me out and allow me taste after taste of the possibilities.  Let me start back in on the 2017 version of myself who has so much empathy and concern for where I am now that she is ready to try harder than I have strength right now.


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