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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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journals and ground zero
While I was waiting for the brilliant Sophistica to arrive yesterday afternoon (natillas, not made, fates, etc.), I sorted through a few things from the damn dreaded bookcase in the kitchen. Mostly they were journal entries that I had made on various scraps of paper and had thrown together on the basis of their being journal entries at some time in the distant past. There were some that were ten years old thrown in with those from last semester (will I ever not think of time as passing in semesters?), and lots of entries from my time with [insert therapist's name here]. Okay. It turns out that I'm not ready yet to write about the entry that I ran across yesterday, the one about the event that changed my life, made me less miserable and less directionless. I'm not embarrassed, but I'm not too terribly willing to continue to probe at it. (How cowardly is that?) Instead, I'll write about my visit with Sophistica. She came over around five and stayed until a few minutes after seven. That girl is so ridiculously brilliant, so unnervingly intelligent that I am a lump of dirt-encrusted silly putty when I am next to her. I love it. She had just come from the bookstore, and she listed off the various textbooks that she had ordered for her recreational reading pleasure. I snuggle up with Jamaica Kincaid and Andrea Dworkin, and she's reading Stryker's "Molecular Biology" for fun. I'm shamed. Anyway, she stayed and filled me in on the ol' love life front (her latest was coming into town yesterday, and she was basically killing time with me while she waited for him to walk in the door, pet his dog, shower). Talking to her reminds me of talking to Chris (God, what was his last name?). They both really speak in riffs. Max came home and chatted with us for a bit before his mother called. We're planning a visit to see her before school starts again. She seems very happy about it--though I often wonder whether, when she invites us, if she's really happy to see us. I feel so sorry for her, not so much because she has this horrible disease as that she really has lost her family. She and I are similar in that way. We both try (tried) so hard to be something we're not supposed to be, however much we want to be it, and we've both paid some price that is not, sadly, unfair. I feel sorry for her because her daughter is a numbskull, a throwback, one of those types of women who loudly complains about the evils of feminism while enjoying the fruits of the movement. I feel sorry for Max's mother because she wasted thirty years of her forshortened life with a husband who really wanted all the benefits of a wife with none of the responsibilities of a wife. (Which she stupidly tried to live up to, I'll admit, but it doesn't make the outcome any easier.) Why do I come to this? Is this today's ground zero?
More lies:
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