Klonopin, Doxylamine, and my second glass of wine. No sleep. Sedated, but no sleep.
so I wait hoping the concoction will knock me out sometime before...well, it's 2:00 am and I need to be up for work in 4 hours. If I were free to enjoy my time as I please, I would have nothing but gratitude for this visit paid to me by the spirits of night, to spend time with her orange muted glow of fog-shrouded city streetlights, the unlikely and uncommon thoughts and sensations she brings to me. And put her on repeat.
I want to stay up and watch Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus, one of my most favorite movies in the whole world.
Watching Black Swan again tonight reminded me of my mother, who, years before I was born, used to dance and teach ballet. I remember this beautiful old picture-book she had of Giselle, and when she read it to me and presented the story, she told me it was her favorite ballet. It's about a girl who dies of a broken heart because she loves someone she cannot be with, but in the end is redeemed and transcendent because of the power of her love.
Then, I remembered how she used to read me original Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales, being sure I was well educated as to the real story of The Little Mermaid - not some cheesy Disney crap where women are proportioned like Barbies and everything is happy in the end and the good side wins and the bad side loses. No, that original story was much more like Giselle, and as far as I know, it was my mother's favorite fairy tale. The Little Mermaid never gets her prince, but to try, she willingly undergoes physical and heart-rending torment and is ultimately faced with either killing her prince, and returning to live three hundred years as a mermaid with her family, or dying and turning into nothing but foam upon the sea (while humans are granted eternity in Heaven). She does not kill her prince.
Immersing myself for a while in the memories of these stories as she presented them to me, I wonder if I haven't learned anew a thing or two about her heart.
Finally
finished The Wind Up Bird Chronicle - and how refreshing it is to dance
with story lines that only lead to mystery and back to one's own mind
to search for answers, to rest immersed a plot that does not explain and
reconcile everything away, in that smug Hollywood-story-line way that
leaves nothing to the imagination. When I first encountered that kind of
storytelling a long time ago, it used to make me uncomfortable, now I
am always so hungry for that cerebral stretch, and so grateful when I
find it. Thank you Murakami
I made Bushala, Assyrian soup, tonight for my dearest Nana, who hasn't been feeling well (guided by the wisdom of ages of her careful direction). We sat at the table and enjoyed wholesome, steaming bowls. And the more of her bowl she drank, the more she seemed to become enlivened. My dad walked by and took a taste despite himself and his dinner waiting for him in the oven. Then he took a second one. Then he took a cup full and sat down with us. Grandmother, father, daughter, enjoying the food of our heritage, just the three of us together.
Shrouding every step I take Making every promise empty Pointing every finger at me Waiting like a stalking butler Who upon the finger rests Murder now, the pattern called "must we" Just because the son has come
Jesus,wont you fucking whistle ? Something but the past and done Jesus, wont you fucking whistle Something but the past and done
Why can't we not be sober? I just want to start this over Why can't we drink forever? I just want to start this over
I am just a worthless liar I am just an imbecile I will only complicate you Trust in me and fall as well I will find a centre in you I will chew it up and leave I will work to elevate you Just enough to bring you down
Mother Mary, won't you whisper? Something but what's past and done Mother Mary, won't you whisper? Something but what's past and done
Why can't we not be sober? I just want to start this over Why can't we sleep forever? I just want to start this over And why?
I am just a worthless liar I am just an imbecile I will only complicate you Trust in me and fall as well I will find a centre in you I will chew it up and leave
Trust me Trust me Trust me Trust me Trust me
Why can't we not be sober? I just want to start things over And why can't we sleep forever? I just want to start this over And why?
I want it when I want it I want it when I want it I want it when I want it I want it when I want it
__________________________________________
TOOL - SCHISM
I know the pieces fit 'Cause I watched them fall away Mildewed and smouldering Fundamental differing Pure intention juxtaposed Will set two lovers' souls in motion Disintegrating as it goes Testing our communication The light that fueled our fire then Has a burned a hole between us so We cannot see to reach an end Crippling our communication
I know the pieces fit 'Cause I watched them tumble down No fault, none to blame It doesn't mean I don't desire to Point the finger, blame the other Watch the temple topple over To bring the pieces back together Rediscover communication
The poetry That comes from the squaring off between And the circling is worth it Finding beauty in the dissonance
There was a time that the pieces fit But I watched them fall away Mildewed and smouldering Strangled by our coveting I've done the math enough to know The dangers of our second guessing Doomed to crumble unless we grow And strengthen our communication Cold silence has A tendency to Atrophy any Sense of compassion Between supposed brothers Between supposed lovers
I know the pieces fit I know the pieces fit I know the pieces fit I know the pieces fit I know the pieces fit I know the pieces fit I know the pieces fit I know the pieces fit
