[29 Nov 2009|01:44pm] love_xcali Lupo, I want to comment, but I can't because you disabled them. I know exactly how you feel and I have been exactly where you are. I don't know if you can or want to find comfort in that, but you will pick yourself up. I promise you will. 1 comment|post comment

[28 Nov 2009|02:34pm] misteroffensive Abort. ABORT! post comment

[27 Nov 2009|04:29am] clizalo Gliding the parking lot of a store, I remember how small and light I was swinging between you and mom, excited when my feet swayed off the pavement as if I caught the moment in slow motion. We witnessed a girl and her father standing near a white car. She was yelling at him. She had that biting tone. I felt pained suddenly for her father. You noticed them. Without looking at me, you said, "That'll be you someday." Offended, I resolved, "No, I will never be like that to you." You said that is what happens when children grow up. Driving me back to mom one night, I saw a line of orange cones on the street. I understood what their function was from my own observations, but I was so inclined to hear it explained in thorough and complete description by you. "What are those for?" I saw you as a book of infinite guidance. Your interpretations gave print to my world of drafts. You said, "They're there for you to run into." I knew this was false. I challenged you. I demanded that you run into the cones. I then became conscious of the shortness of your answer, the subtle cynicism with which you delivered it. I yelled at you. If this is what happens when children grow up, what happens to you? In my nightmares, you and mom no longer walk at any constant pace. I am dragging in between your uneven strides. Now there is no between. I am deeply shameful for secretly hoping you would arrive with a thanksgiving meal wrapped up all for me. One year you forgot cranberry sauce, so you rushed to the store and came back with a bag of frozen cranberries for me. ........... They were the little things, and today was just another day, and he was a little too late, and he was never there, and now he knows how it aches to love when it was not given consent.

Writers aren't exactly people... they're a whole lot of people trying to be one person. [24 Nov 2009|12:28am] clizalo [ mood | drunk ] Remember when we were oh so inexperienced, intrigued with the revolting pleasure of what haunts us now? Those were the good, sunny days. In other news, my attempts to hit on a 70-year-old professor were dismissed and resulted in jocular sassiness and coy reactions. His large house and hollow photos and shy cat left me sad. But I survive, still. This. Love, love, love, Catherine PS: Soon; the days come to it, soon. 2 comments|post comment

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