11/03/2004
How Things Were
That night Sean came home, made love in a trance. Never understood that phrase before. Never loved anyone like I love Sean, though.
A small story....a true story. My imagination is nothing but stories; the memories grown confused. Both schizophrenics and Alzheimer patients lack the continuity necessary to create a story. I wonder if their memories fluctuate similarly. Dinner with the parents, pizza. My dad telling the same old tired stories as usual. Those are all the memories he has. There is always a defensive note in my voice when arguing with my parents about How Things Were. Like anytime I'm wrong it means I confused it all. There is a strange balance in this mutual denial.
I want a wedding. I want to be a bride. I think about learning the weight of a diamond ring on my hand, afraid to wish. I want the dress, the flowers, the ceremony. I want the gifts, the beautifully wrapped domesticity. I want to sit in front of a delicate wood desk writing Thank You cards on silver monographed paper. I want to learn to be that kind of girl, who knows how to get married and make the bed so the bedspread doesn't end up all off to one side. We moved in May and some boxes still aren't unpacked.
I want a penise. Sometimes I think oral sex is just plain overrated, but I'd rather think about getting a blow-job than giving one. Sean told me about his fantasy of coming home from work and I undress him and go down on him.
I think about blood-stained sheets, wonder how many women down through the centuries have arranged to be married during their menstrual time. Why does the bride wear a white dress here, anyways? Conspicuous consumption? I want an old Venetian lace veil like one in the story book.
I want to go to Venice, Paris, Amsterdam. I want to see Moors and potato hills. I like the idea of moving somewhere no one can claim relation, where no one will know me unless I choose to introduce myself. It must have been a great deal easier to disappear before the whole telecommunication thingy.
The dream I had....people formed of stained glass. Sean's nightmares, his arms shaking in his sleep. Lately I am always afraid of death--I need to pray more. ¶ 10:32 PM
A small story....a true story. My imagination is nothing but stories; the memories grown confused. Both schizophrenics and Alzheimer patients lack the continuity necessary to create a story. I wonder if their memories fluctuate similarly. Dinner with the parents, pizza. My dad telling the same old tired stories as usual. Those are all the memories he has. There is always a defensive note in my voice when arguing with my parents about How Things Were. Like anytime I'm wrong it means I confused it all. There is a strange balance in this mutual denial.
I want a wedding. I want to be a bride. I think about learning the weight of a diamond ring on my hand, afraid to wish. I want the dress, the flowers, the ceremony. I want the gifts, the beautifully wrapped domesticity. I want to sit in front of a delicate wood desk writing Thank You cards on silver monographed paper. I want to learn to be that kind of girl, who knows how to get married and make the bed so the bedspread doesn't end up all off to one side. We moved in May and some boxes still aren't unpacked.
I want a penise. Sometimes I think oral sex is just plain overrated, but I'd rather think about getting a blow-job than giving one. Sean told me about his fantasy of coming home from work and I undress him and go down on him.
I think about blood-stained sheets, wonder how many women down through the centuries have arranged to be married during their menstrual time. Why does the bride wear a white dress here, anyways? Conspicuous consumption? I want an old Venetian lace veil like one in the story book.
I want to go to Venice, Paris, Amsterdam. I want to see Moors and potato hills. I like the idea of moving somewhere no one can claim relation, where no one will know me unless I choose to introduce myself. It must have been a great deal easier to disappear before the whole telecommunication thingy.
The dream I had....people formed of stained glass. Sean's nightmares, his arms shaking in his sleep. Lately I am always afraid of death--I need to pray more. ¶ 10:32 PM
