Angel from Montgomery
It’s been a while since I last wrote something here. I can’t eve remember what my last post was about and I can’t really be bothered to look it up. Time seems to pass without my consent and I don’t even realise how long it’s been until suddenly it’s «the end» or «a beginning» and things are changing again.
I had two job interviews today. My back and feet are killing me, ’cause I also met a friend for lunch and went for a stroll around the canals. In 3.5 inch heels. Uncomfortable. Then I had to rush to the Argentine Tango Society’s election – yeah, this is the end of my reign.
Another end, hopefully another beginning.
I’m tired. But I have a skype meeting with a critique group for the novel I’m writing in about 3 hours. I’ll probably nap in the meantime, if I manage to calm myself enough to sleep. Sleep no longer eludes me, thankfully. Dreams don’t elude me either, yet, to be honest, I never had trouble dreaming, awake or asleep, my head is always filled with surrealist fantasies -whether I like it or not.
I’m too long-winded. My sentences rarely make sense when I forget to stop.
Do I want to make sense? I don’t know.
I’m wearing this oversized white shirt, without a bra, and it feels weird against my nipples, trying to be linen but being too synthetic to pull it through, then trying to be cotton and still coming short. I’m also wearing my new hippie earrings, two silver crosses with a blue stone on top that almost look sacrilegious in their disregard for christian symbols and propriety, or am I projecting again? Giving them a meaning they don’t have so that they ‘ll suit my mood?
I’m tired. It had been a good day today. It was cloudy but not raining and once again, Birmingham proved to be a city I’d love to live into. I’ll know soon enough about one of those jobs.
And writing that line was harder than talking about the shirt and my nipples.
I’m scared. Of rejection, of failure, of going back home to live two doors down from my mother and always regret not trying harder, doing something, anything, to stay away. And it’s not even living close to my mother that I’m dreading. It’s all the things I hate about my birthplace and its mentalities. And all the things I love.
Yet, if failure comes, I know I’ll survive. I always do. I think it’s genetic. Women in my family, on all sides of the family, are survivors. We face wars and losing our loved ones, marrying moody murderers and burying our children. We face cancer and smoke in our deathbeds, divorce husbands we loved and stay with those we don’t.
If one can somehow live through all that, I can definitely face failure. It won’t be the first time. It’s just that the other, smaller failures were not as heartbreaking.
Heartbreaking. As if a muscle pumping blood can break without killing you.
I know I’ll be fine. I’ll wake up the next morning, brush me hair and fix my make up. Wear something with a bow or a pattern, or hippie earrings with dangling crosses. And big silk flowers in my coat’s buttonhole, it’s spring, after all. I’ll smile and say «good morning». I’ll be myself, or that self that emerges every time the real me goes into hiding. I’ll cook lunch and whip a quick desert. I’ll make T. laugh and I. curse me in serbian ’cause «deserts make her fat».
I’ll be wearing the white shirt I sleep in, the one with the vaguely familiar material, and make a cosmopolitan so that I can drink alone in private, just one. It’s exhausting getting dolled up and going out for a drink, always with the expectation of another boy that tries to be a man and sex, maybe some intimacy if you’re lucky, ’cause damn me, if it hasn’t been too long for a woman to still have some self-esteem left, another dissapointment.
Or is this another failure?
Those nights that I’m sure I’ll never be a wife, or a mother, even though, in all honesty and feminist beliefs aside, I’ve never wanted to be either. Why does it feel like a failure, this certainty that I won’t become something I’ve ever wanted to be.? Insanity? Or just conformity?
Do I even make sense tonight? There’s a fog around my brain, I’m not sure if I’m still capable of real thought processes. I’m sure I’m not capable of actually writing something beautiful, or even heartfelt.
These are just scribblings that my hand is too tired to write longhand. Typing is easier.
Typing and then sending away, a message to the void is redemptive.
I think I should say goodnight.
Maybe this foul mood will leave by morning.
I’m not sure if I’m sliding down a rabbit hole or if I’m hauling my self up again.
(Listen to «Angel from Montgomery» by this girl. I have it on repeat.»)
Στο:Άνοιξη, Δικά της..., Ma vie est grise, Wind Chimes | 9 Σχόλια