I am feeling dark and deep--
but not the kind of deep that people nod somberly in respect to.
I am...fettered by my life,
yet freed through it.
I am too easily distracted by sweet nothings--
and even moreso by sweet somethings.
the drive home, with a
pinkish
blueish
purpleish sky lying heavily on dark smudges of tall mountains--
not equilateral triangles with a carefully uneven fringe of white across the top 1/3,
like the pictures I drew as a kid...
would still draw now, if I drew.
can't draw worth a shit.
but I always thought I would make a great modern artist--
splash of red here, flick some blue there:
this is my impression of a taxi driver on a rainy day.
no?
you don't see it?
well fuck you then, it's ART.
I should try that with writing.
I guess maybe I do...
I think I am sick of a few things.
not the mountains.
not glorious, wonderful, soul-filling friends.
not my life.
not 99% of my life, at least.
but I did realize today that I am 20% larger than I would like to be.
so I guess it's just a math problem, really.
Lisa
subtract 850 desserts a week
times more rigor at the gym (with less gawking at fucking beautiful men/glaring at fucking beautiful women)
equals
80% of the current Lisa
yes.
I can see it.
a masterpiece in shades of green.
There is a saddness ebbing its way out of me, toward the shore--
or the horizon?
which one is the ebb tide?
my uncle's lobster boat was named that,
but it doesn't help me remember.
dad's was the Sting Ray.
they called him Hurricaine Bob cuz he was crazy enough to go out in the most heinous of weather.
that's my dad.
I am so much like him it scares me.
not even just some of the time.
my shoulders ache.
my legs are sore.
I feel hollowish, but giant-sized.
becky said I'm not.
she should know.
but my horoscope said not to believe what people say about me--
and that the more pleasing those things are, the less stock I should put in them.
fucking NICE horoscope.
fuckers.
god damned stars.
I heard the rumble of Harleys today, and whispered your name.
you didn't answer, but I knew you wouldn't.
there are too many lives and miles, pressed against each other,
making sound waves stop, shrug their shoulders, and turn around---
Someday.
They say someday never comes, but I don't believe them.
I feel the wind in my hair, taste the dust of the road--
then open my eyes and wonder what my sheets are doing on the back of a bike.
I am now wondering what time it is,
and considering bed.
I feel...
like black and white.
(but not red/read all over)
this post tastes like saltines to me,
but not in a bad way.
I don't know what that means.
monotone,
monochrome,
monogamous.
I just needed to clear my head...
seems to be the running theme for me this week.
and I seem to have forgotten how to answer comments.
I still read, cherish, contemplate them--
and I promise I'll do better.
several of you asked about Bunco.
it's a dice game, which is basically a reason to get together once a month.
I think it's the Bridge of our generation.
I have had very little social contact for a lot of the time I've lived here,
or at least chances to meet new people,
so it has been really fun for me.
My college friends all moved away,
and my work friends sort of scattered,
and that was only the first 5 years I lived here...
these last 5, I've been at home.
full time.
so...I've had only my husbad's high school friends and their wives to connect with. they're good...
but it's complicated and I'm tired, so the short story is:
we don't really see any of them anymore.
and besides, I love men--I love everything from hanging out with them, to fucking them,
but women are my first love.
GOOD women, smart, funny, warm, wonderful women are what make me a better person.
I have discovered a marked lack of that particular variety in Utah, in fact,
(and so many here, in InternetLand!!!)
but slowly I am finding more dear girlfriends, and in the process, finding myself again--
my SELF.
not Lisa the mother,
not Lisa the wife.
Lisa.
What a strange thing to hear one's own name and feel it.
stranger still to hear "mom" directed at oneself...
so, so, so disconnected I am sometimes.
with parts of me lying in heaps around a cluttered attic--
like a cleaning/organiztional party interupted or abandoned...
cleaning an attic, in the summer, on Summer St...
in Maine.
15? probably.
with Taylor, stripping down to our bras to combat the heat.
feeling so wild for taking such action, so silly, too.
Jasmine and I, caravaning from Maine to Utah for the start of our...
sophomore year? yes.
driving topless from fucking nebraska to goddamn wyoming--stupid waste of space.
thanks for the corn!
yikes.
I just breathed in some saliva and nearly choked to death.
that's my biggest nightmare, by the way...
to be alone in the house, or driving, and choke.
to death.
good thing I don't dwell on it.
I looked up the psychiatric definition of narcissism...
thank GOD I only fit about half the characteristics.
but, hey, it could be worse.
besides, I really do kick ass.
so why shouldn't I obsess over it...?
(yes, that's me, rolling on the floor, laughing so hard it hurts--or is that just from rolling around on ceramic TILE??)
on that note, I'm off to bed.
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