Wednesday, May 27, 2009

With feet like roots and acorn boots.

Hesitancy looms.

Tucked into the round wicker chair in the back forty of my parent's basement, a sense of cool and calm have settled in as well. The frigidity of the basement is welcomed today. My neck is tomato red.

Back up.

This morning, Aunty Marj and I painted the entire deck around her pool in our bras. Well, I was in my bra. We worked quickly and the sun burnt both our necks/shoulders (and my back) to a crisp. It was glorious. Working with her was glorious. She is a journalist and I would like to be a journalist. Therefore the conversation was as filling as my mother's rhubarb crisp that we ate for dessert today. Delicious and filling words of wisdom, thank you. After a job well done, her and I sprawled out on the fakey tile floor of the sun porch and doused ripped up pool towels and ourselves with turpentine and any and all traces of the oil stain washed away and disappeared completely. I left and walked down the sidewalk toward home with my skin reeking (a nice reminder of Martha Street) and a one hundred dollar gift certificate for dry cleaning almost as crisp as my neck tucked into the front pocket of my paint smattered shorts. I have always regarded Aunty Marj as a big tipper, but that was just plum hysterical. Thanks for a great day, great lady. You rule, teach me everything you know.

Brule's rule.

My penchant for writing has gone with the south winds and the ease with which I use to sit and think and then write has gone as well. I am not sure if this is because I am so deliriously happy with Thom, or due to the very strange city/country routine that I have fallen into, or the fact that I am no longer alone in my apartment. I keep having to remind myself that this too shall pass and praying that the fluidity with which I used to think/write will once again return. I am not sure so anymore. I have been thinking so much, switching gears in the last few months, planning and plunging ahead for the months of toil and reclusiveness that are to come. I will write in the woods. I will write in the woods. I will write in the woods. It is funny how often I find myself repeating this very sentence over and over while rolling walls, while cooking for two, while washing the dishes, while folding my dad's work shirts, while carrying cucumber salad to the gazebo, while staining a railing and I suppose only time will tell. For now, I am not writing because I cannot.

Finding Thom was pure luck, a shot in the dark, a lottery if you will. He is good to me. He is good for me. Before I found him I was in a place where contentedness abounded in my singleness, but my desire to adore someone and to be adored trumped everything else. It trumped the insane social calendar, the bananas dinner parties, the dance nights, the expensive haircuts, the long shifts, the solitary bike rides. In retrospect, I can still do all of those things, but my priorities seem to have shifted in the quiet of the night. It has been deliriously easy to fall into the role of someone's lady, someone's girlfriend (which is such a strange term, it has been years since I have tried it on for size), and I think this trend of adoration will be an easy one to uphold. I miss him when he leaves the room. Barf. Love is nice. It fits like a glove.

Since the loss of my apartment, I do miss my liquid dinners with Rebecca with a surprising severity. I miss Thursday dinners and bottles of nice wine where she would traipse in, dump her shit, perch bird-like on the same kitchen chair (on her side of the table) and we would talk while I would perform magic and make something out of nothing. Out of all of the things I miss, I miss that. But girl, we will start again as soon as I find a new home; with feet like roots and acorn boots. You know how the rest of the song goes, we listened to Yosh sing it one hundred million times while winding through the Alps; you slumped against me, me slumped against you. Speaking of trains and running away to Europe, please do yourself a favor and watch this. (Click on Le Film and die happy). Oh Audrey, how I love you.

Let's run away together.
Europe is closer than I think, I think.

This is terrible. Just when I discover my path, I loose my ability to write. Hands are tied. Oh well. Who cares, I am in love with a man with the best taste in shoes (and everything else).

Le sigh.

1 comment:

  1. Not sure how you can lament the loss of your writing mojo in another beautifully written post.