Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
I think one of the best things thats ever happened to me is being set free this way. I wonder if my parents expected all this from me when they let me go. I wonder if they saw it was my nature to pursue the object of my desire vehemently for just that first crisp, sweet bite of satisfaction before changing direction entirely and resting my gaze just as passionately upon something else. I wonder if they predicted the path I would set on, if they knew the trail I'd leave behind me as I went.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Here are some pictures of a few weekends ago, when Dhanji and I went to the Band of Horses concert in Alpharetta. The Jayhawks opened, surprisingly good, I believe the quote from the man behind me summed them up quite nicely, "Aged to musical perfection." Yup. One lady in particular truly enjoyed the Jayhawks, known hence forth as "Fangirl." Man, she was probably crazy in her 20's. So as usual, I made friends with the people sitting around us, and we periodically provoked the nazi ushers by standing in the aisles. Or partyboying them when their backs were turned....
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
When I was young I used to think I was special, and the bushes and trees would talk to me and bow to me when i walked past and the cats and dogs trusted me because I showed them who I was through my eyes. I think I will always see things this way. Helping the worms cross the sidewalk. Watching the owl dance on the wall. Breathing in butterflies.
Friday, April 1, 2011
I dreamt I was the recent caretaker to a young man who had been a soldier in Iraq, and who had returned home after his tank ran over an IED that took his left forearm. He suffered from burns and was missing a finger on his right hand, and most of a second. He was married to a woman that could not handle his injuries, psychological trauma, and the work load she had to endure for his care, and was abusive and negligent. She was repulsed by him, and refused to touch him or show him any affection. In the face of his depression and feelings of uselessness, the man retreated into his home and became reclusive, a monster and a burden he felt did not deserve to exist.
I became his caretaker, and then, his only friend. He was funny, a strangely beautiful thing, distressed and broken. We fell in love, I with him, then him with me, a desperate, urgent attraction from deep within me that I cannot explain. We would waste time together while his wife was at work, making love behind the drab curtains of the bedroom that hid us from the light of day and contained the stuffy, mussed smell of sickness, of madness. Laying wasted in the sheets, threads of honest emotion stirring into the air, and now, settling back into the carpet. It was volatile, it was beautiful. Heart-wrenchingly so. Guilty, and perfect, and painful. I do not understand my need to love a damaged thing, but I wake up to the day and feel it, the ever present ache that is the only love I've ever known, and the only love I've known how to give. It's born of desperation, born of anguish, the wilting flower petals, the sinking ship, it's the paramount clasp of two hands over an angry ocean, when one slowly starts to slip...