January 8, 2010
Dear Fickle One,
Enough is enough, you know. Really. Three years of push/pull are enough even for my legendary equanimity and patience.
Yes, you’re cute. Yes, you’re witty, and smart, and can talk my pants off effortlessly. Yes, blah blah blah.
Remember, though… you are hardly unique. I’ve had my pants talked off by cuter, wittier and smarter than you.
Go talk to the allegedly dull one who is fucking you to death, and the apparently insane one who just wants a good spanking, and the obviously flexible one who will stand on her head for you. Then, when you figure out what you really want, come back and tell me all about it.
And I’ll tell you all about those other fish (there are plenty in the sea, I hear, and others to fry).
Bye bye big boy.
December 26, 2009
I am bound by the season and its trappings.
Every shining moment can be turned over to reveal its lusterless reality. Each merry greeting secretly contains within it the shame of untimely solitude. I smilingly pine for release behind gritted teeth, I silently yearn for rescue while my brain boils in despair. My apparent cheer and serenity are rewarded with lies, more lies, sneering lies and traps. Survival… two weeks of keeping up appearances, of soul-killing sweetness and begrudging generosity… are ended only by a return to normal.
Normal is negligent and cold and often alone, but it also means freedom and possibilities and secret conversations that sustain.
September 15, 2009
I try to identify the source of my anxiety in what we have, this incalculable thing that has sprung up between us.
Maybe it is the calibre of his words? Yes, his words are his ammunition, and I am slain.
No. That doesn’t work. Let’s try again.
His words are the sun. I am blinded. I am burnt. I am… nicely tanned and it’s time to turn over?
No, no, no!
This is it, the source of my anguish. His words, his words, they crash into me, they cudgel, they caress me, they craze me, they coerce me. I feel helpless, hapless, hurt. I’m overwhelmed, blissfully so, and I can’t fight back because he has everything, and I have nothing. The words are his, never mine, given but not received. They turn me on, they arouse me, they pull me in, I drown in them, but they are never mine.
Au contraire. My words, mine, les miens, are nothing, become meaningless and empty in response, because of, in reaction to. His. I’m left verbally naked.
And craving more. Words.
September 13, 2009
A year and a half after promising to emerge from unintentional and occasional but still neglectful hiding, followed by sudden, self-imposed and seemingly permanent blog exile, I appear to have returned. What can it mean? Why would la bohémienne have been satisfied to navel gaze in solitude all of this time, and then, without warning (to herself or to others), feel a need to share all that lint with all and sundry once more?
There is only one possible explanation.
I crave attention. Your attention. The need has never fully disappeared. It was there, lurking barely beneath the surface, waiting to emerge when my attention was elsewhere. Angst doesn’t go away, not really. It just hides, and attacks when defenses are low. And now, I feel as vulnerable to that attack as I have in many months.
If I must be honest (must I?), I secretly enjoy that vulnerability. It seems to me that every grand and intense experience occurs when I feel least able to handle the consequences. That seems a fair trade-off to a self-identified drama queen.
So here I am, ready to verbally wring my hands and wail my confusion in (anonymous) public once more. I do hope that you will accept this implied apology. I know that I’ve taken you for granted, and I really don’t deserve a second chance. I know you, though, and your legendary generosity. If you take me back, believe me, read me, tell me you love me, I promise to be faithful to you, only you, only all of you.
Or at least occasionally amuse you with my not-so-quiet desperation.
January 6, 2008
Hiding under the bed, I became used to dust bunnies in my nostrils, and weird shiny bits of paper occasionally floating by me. Still, it was generally warm and, the main point of being there, quiet. Once, a pair of fuzzy-slippered feet hesitated not far from my nose, and there was a distant and muffled noise that just might have been my name being called. It’s hard to say… I’ve rather forgotten the sound of my name. There were the right number of syllables. I think.
Another time, a wee mousie scurried under my bent knees, on his way somewhere more interesting and less encumbered by my presence. Even had it been moving more slowly, slowly enough to make eye contact before disappearing beyond the short range of my dimming vision, I’m not sure I would have invited it to stay. I had little if any conversation left in me, and what else does one offer a wee mousie, when one is hiding under the bed?
Generally, I spent my time humming quietly to myself, solving word problems that I set for myself, in my head… very simple ones, of course. I wasn’t there to expand my intellect, after all. Once in a while, I would squint my eyes to examine whether my fingernails had become too long, and if so, I would chew calmly on them until all was right again. I was content, as content as one should be with no disturbing view of the outside world, no distracting opportunity to flex muscles, no annoying food or water, no… well, no bathroom facilities.
Honestly, it was this last that motivated me, finally, to emerge. The necessities of life and human contact can’t be avoided forever, apparently. First I stretched out my right arm, and wiggled my fingers beyond the shadow of the mattress. The air felt a little cool, but bearable. I waited for a while, for possible negative side effects or consequences. Nothing. Nothing touched my fingers, no one yelled in sudden, frightening awareness of my re-emergence. I waited longer. Finally, I began to shuffle my body along the dusty floor, pausing once to sneeze into my elbow, as I have been painstakingly taught to do. When I finally dragged my head out into the open, I covered my eyes with one hand. Too much light. Too much, too soon. I began to hear street noises, distantly, in the background. I eventually uncovered my eyes, and looked toward the source of the light and noise… a window, blinds closed, but not fully blocking the outside from intruding on the inside.
In time, I gathered my courage, and rolled over onto my hands and knees, and slowly, used my hands on the edge of the bed to pull myself into an unaccustomed upright position. I shook my head, patted my hair, smoothed my clothes, and… here I am. Please don’t make any sudden movements or loud noises. I’ve become unused to it. I startle easily. But here I am.
December 16, 2007
This post is being written by an automated blogging device.
If Bohémienne had any integrity as a blogger, she would have updated this so-called blog many days ago. Since that is clearly not the case, the Automated Blogging System (ABS) has been activated. This blog will contain all of the required and habitual elements:
I am a most interesting blogger. I have no doubt that you are fascinated by each and every one of my scintillating words. Today I choose to pass along the following tidbit of wisdom — try not to take on too much over the Christmas season, or you may, in fact, run out of time to write.
Do you still love me, even though I haven’t been posting regularly? Have you decided to abandon me as a lost cause? Please… I really can’t get by without your attention. I promise to do better. Don’t leave me.
Really, it isn’t as though anything I write is worth your time and effort. I’m awfully ordinary. I’m more than grateful for your attention, and I take it with a grain of salt. Truly, my talent isn’t so great. No, no, stop it. I blush.
If Bohémienne decides to get off of her ass and post again soon, this ABS will not need to be activated again. In the meantime, your patience is appreciated.
December 6, 2007
I wake up with a low rumbling at the edge of my consciousness. I’m not immediately certain whether this is a headache or the angst of the night making a last protest and grab at my attention before receding at the approaching day. The sensation does not pass, though. It insists and takes hold, until I am forced to recognize it. It steals the tepid pleasure from the pale wintry sun trying weakly to push its sickly rays through the blinds across the room. It resonates with the sound of the alarm shrilling suddenly, as always 5 minutes too late. I’m already awake, or the next thing to it. The buzzing at the back of my head is now a throbbing. It is pain, but it is also memory, a feeling that is hanging on too long, according to my practical daily self, and the practical daily people who tell me to move on, let go, get over it. I placidly, obediently agree. I set my conditions, double my efforts, and refuse to give in.
It doesn’t go away, though. It stays there, buzzing, rumbling, throbbing, ready for the next grey morning, to remind me. It always infiltrates slowly, day after day, this knowledge of my unhappiness. I’m running out of options, though, of energy for fighting it, beating it down. Moving on, letting go, getting over it… that’s the easy part. The thing, though, that presence, that knowledge follows me, through my day, giving me respite only at night, knowing that it is waiting, hovering to push back in with my consciousness. It, memory, has to let go of me, and it hasn’t.
I’ve tried talking it out of me. I can’t do that any more. I’m the one who is talked out. I have attempted to cry it out, walk it out, think it out. It’s stubborn. It hangs on, as if with the primitive understanding that, once out, it will not be welcomed back. This is my next essay. This time, I will try to write it out. If I get the words just right, just write, it will fly from me, out the tips of my fingers, with those words, into space, into emptiness, I don’t care where. I need to type the magic words, the sentence that will free of my self-imposed sentence. Can it be as simple as knowing the incantation? I suspect that even this apparently magical solution will not rid me of this burden.