What Women Want

Mountains: Campbell's mom, Jean, Campbell and myself. It is an interesting dynamic. I can see now why Campbell is drawn to strong women and makes me wonder if I must appear so to him. She is a woman who knows what she wants and asks for it. I am a woman who wants things, often unreasonably, and hates when they don't manifest themselves. These are our differences. In this way it reveals much of what troubles our relationship. He is waiting for me to tell him to do something while I wait for him to do what will make me happy by inference.

The days have been fun albeit full of anxety. I may be too high strung and bitchy for the woman to condone me for her son. She has probably seen me more myself than any mother of a past boyfriend.

Speaking of which, let's talk about that. Why do I constantly refer to my ex-boyfriends in front of the boy? This I don't even know myself. It is something that I never did with Andre nor did I do it with Rob. For some reason I feel as though it gives me power in this relationship that I would not otherwise have. At the same time, I have the major sense that it is a turnoff yet for some reason I cannot help myself. I think that I believe that Campbell will hear of my escapades and my lovers and try to work harder to please me, especially since he is a boy with an ego to begin with. This, of course, is untrue. I am impossible to read, don't speak of what I want, and then get pissed about not getting it when it doesn't come to pass.

Strange that a girl can know all of this yet never bother to change it. Or be too afraid to do so.

and this is how i feel today

Green Squares

There is a problem with the extremities in which the people I currently relate with live their lives. It's not so much a problem in the grander scheme of things, rather just the scheme of my understanding.

There are those out there who, I feel, do not care at all. Passed going to Target to get a matching plaid set - scarf, gloves, hat and calling so-and-so to tell her about it, the world ends. But then, there are those whom I love and cannot understand all at once. They are not eating, buying, seeing, hearing or connecting with the world as I know it. Every topic, every choice is a fastidious pyramid of research that falls upon a reason that, by the time it has come to that choice, must be like the telephone game that travelled around the world. They will never talk to the person that made that special thingamabob from whatever fair trade country that was animal friendly, eco-conscious and pro-choice, but they will spout the evils of the milk I drink from the farmer I talked to from the family farm less than 30 miles away.

On the other side there is the one who has no research but an inclination as to what is right, what is best, what is the end all be all of that which is...a piece of bread. These opinions change on daily basis mind you (better than not at all), but they are all but decrees when they are uttered. One day he is convincing me that the red square is the only acceptably hued geometric shape and the next day the green circle is the center of the universe. The rhyme or reason extends little beyond having been whispered to by the person who owns the can of green paint, "This is the best paint, and I'm going to put it on a circle, which is so much better than a square." And there you have it.

As much as I cannot stand it I likewise find the prospect of being around the infinitely malleable creature that is the wholly unbiased person disgusting. There are those who do not have opinions and do not express them. There are also those who have opinions but will not express them. Thinking themselves some sort of high-minded altruist, these people listen, in silent judgment thinking their opinions superior but refusing to put them to the test. I fear I am that person.

Finally, you have those who I have referred to above, slathering their opinions all over like monkeys throwing their own feces. These people have verbatum facts that they rub in my eyes like salt. I am so blinded by the assembly of data that there is no way to have a dialogue about it.

What it comes down to is exactly that: the dialogue. Why does no one ask any questions of her peers these days? Do we not want to know what another thinks anymore? After all, when we do not know, best not admit it until we've thoroughly investigated on Wikipedia right?

The more adamantly someone pushes these things in my face the less likely I am to ask a question about what or why or how an opinion came to be. Taking this into account, I am therefore less likely to change the way I act or what I believe. It is only through engagement (some sort of political key word no doubt) that I am available, and not the passive sort nor the aggressive sort (nor the passive-aggressive sort). I mean, whatever happened to genuine interest in the inner workings of another human being? Is it so complex that we all fear to tackle it or are we so simple that we fear letting someone else know this truth?

biding my tide

The soft plump of goats milk pushes back against my lips. I did not expect this. Is it the wine that makes it so pleasing; after all, the two are a pairing. The skin is also dairy smooth; I had not thought about touching it until now. Do I like this buttery softness? I cannot help but melt a little beneath its weight, incredulously. I think about exploring but instead I allow myself to be explored. I do not yet feel the need to journey the folds of that land, but rather, to let my body be the voyage. Whispers sail past my ears. How strangely my mind responds, laughing, curious, enticed. What happens to this ocean as I let the voyager attempt to navigate my waters. I let it all flow through me while the moon's silver sliver reflects upon my surface.

Geometry

Each day I pass the engines heaving in the rail yard. They are old bulldogs. Sometimes I get off at the station to listen to them sigh awhile. Though they are alive I never see them move, as if in perpetual preparation for a grand exodus. Or are they trapped and tormented beasts wheezing out there last days?

Some days I pass by, wishing I could feel the wind and hear their sighs. But the solid transparent portal holds me back, knowing that I might jump were it to open. Instead I watch, imagining their soft baritones.

I follow the tracks with my eyes. Below a man walks along them collecting what he considers valuable. I wish I could be down there with him, rooting through the urban decay. A junkyard of stories, watched over by sleepy bulldogs who can protect their treasure no more than I can free them.

The trains are left behind me and I am left watching the geometry of the monotonous graffiti bubble tags yearn for creative inspiration.

leftovers

He fades from my memory like the leftovers in my fridge. They befuddle me at first: what can I do with them? How do I convert them into something palatable? Then their presence begins to irk me: why have they not disappeared yet? Why do they have to be so difficult and nagging on my conscience? Finally, I feel the pain of losing what is still present. I know that what they were was too distinct to be recombined into something new. I know that our relationship has rotted into mephitic waste. And so with sadness I let the leftovers go, allowing for new saporific morsels to creep in and push out the pain.

And they do.

Slowly but surely, I come across new and different flavors. I do not enjoy them fully yet, but they give me pleasure. I feel pangs of guilt about my inability to appreciate this newness in full, but it is all I can do. I will experiment slowly until I am ready to feast again, having cast off my fear and anxiety from what is past.

elusive comfort

I'm searching for something and I don't know what it is. Days go by and I feel impending failure. This is false. I am upon the journey that is my life. I want to abandon the past to this new journey. Yet, letting go of all that is and has been is nearly impossible. The nature and nurture of a lifetime cling to my ego which I seek to forsake. The answer is an eternal tomorrow, slowly stepping towards it but never reaching that destination. I type away, accomplishing nothing, dividing my hope into half-lives rather than realizing the whole. I will never "be" at this rate. I will only briefly catch wisps of hope in exponential decay. Soon they will be unrecognizable and one with my accomplishments. Happiness resides in these two which I abandon like radioactive waste.