Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
He visits and I fall asleep in my spot.
Curled up in the soft, scratchy nape of his neck.
Tucked under his arm with my hand on his stomach.
Lie me there for a moment and suddenly I’m more tired than I’ve ever been.
I fall asleep without realizing it.
Until his chuckle at my heavy breath wakes me.
I miss my spot.
I want it back, every night.
I want us back sometimes.
I forget about all of the bad days, or they don’t seem so bad.
Or maybe just more justified than they did before.
I miss his laughter, usually at his own jokes.
I miss him calling me from work, just because.
I miss the habitual, more than genuine, ‘I love you’ exchanged at every departure.
I miss.
Then I talk to him.
I remember how frustrating his perpetual smirk was.
That dismissive tone of voice he adopts.
How everything is always, always my fault.
Or at least that I’m guilty of everything he is.
So I have no right to complain.
How he pulls out of every argument early, under the guise of preventing escalation.
Even though he started it.
He doesn’t want the other side presented.
My side.
It’s futile to persist.
I remember everything I hate about us.
How I was swallowed whole in us.
How nothing I did was important to him.
Nothing I said was relevant.
Nothing could satisfy him, or me.
My days were full then, too, of an eager longing for something different.
Something better.
I guess that’s just me.
Always dissatisfied.
I miss my spot.
I want it back, every night.
But I remember more of those old every nights.
How just as I had fallen into the second stage of sleep his arm would be yanked from under my cheek.
He’d roll over, showing me his freckled back.
Muttering something about a bad shoulder.
Or a sleeping arm.
I’d be cold and alone, my body trying to make up for the warmth he’d provided.
That he snatched away so suddenly.
I think about how I sleep alone now.
I depend on nothing but myself and my blankets for heat.
There are no sudden jolts or surprises.
I think it’s better that way; safer at least.
The less dependent on him, the better.
Even if it’s just for heat, or a pillow, at night.
but I have to express to you how I’m feeling. I’ll let Ron Burgundy emote for me.
I’m feeling sad/angry/hurt/crazy but regardless, like Ron: I have shit to do. Thank you Mr. Burgundy, for allowing me to express myself vicariously through you.
I found that link via the ‘Incoming Links’ section on my dashboard. If that’s a real picture, the blog owner’s pretty hot. I’d do him.
—————
I was looking at places to rent around Wilmington. I came upon this little townhouse, which is too far outside of town for me, but I still thought it was cute [and hella cheap to boot] so I skimmed the description. And I read:
“All tenants must be related by marriage or blood per HOA”.
Damn North Carolina! I thought we were past that! This pissed me off. I don’t understand how it’s even legal for a Home Owner’s Association to dictate the living arrangements of a couple or family. There’s no way in hell I’d live in a neighborhood with those types of restrictions. I for one love the gay couple down the street, and the unmarried folks that live beside us. They are perfect neighbors.
Now I can understand, somewhat the ‘no students’ thing. This is a college town, and college students can get pretty rowdy. I can sort of get no co-signers as well, that’s pretty common. But to stipulate that their ‘values’ must be on the same strange and outdated level as yours?
Who the fuck wants to live in fucking Stepford? I sure as hell don’t. Not to say they’d even accept our family – I’m pretty sure that minorities and interracial couples don’t fit in their little mold either.
I cannot believe this type of blatant discrimination is still allowed. I can’t even say anything more…I’m just too shocked/disgusted to delve deeper.
Does anyone out there understand this? See why they would have this type of stipulation? If so – let ME know. I’m just a puzzled as a drunk squirrell on the highway.
“Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).”
Here are the rules:
1) Write your own six word memoir;
2) Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like;
3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere; 4) Tag at least five more blogs with links; and
5) Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play
I wrote under a Pseudo-pseudonym.
It’s my real name you see, but people never think it is, and I love it. No one actually believes that there are people with such names in existence today. There are! ME!
Anyway, check out my guest review over there, and comment to tell me what you thought. Be brutally honest. I tried to be honest, and fair. We shall see if anyone liked it but me. And the awesome Love Bites [we're getting married as soon as bigamy and gay marriage are legalized in my state].
