To Sir With Love

“Those schoolgirl days, of telling tales and biting nails are gone, But in my mind, I know they will still live on and on,
But how do you thank someone, who has taken you from crayons to perfume? It isn’t easy, but I’ll try.
If you wanted the sky I would write across the sky in letters, That would soar a thousand feet high, To Sir, with Love
The time has come, For closing books and long last looks must end.  And as I leave, I know that I am leaving my best friend, A friend who taught me right from wrong, And weak from strong, That’s a lot to learn, What, what can I give you in return?
If you wanted the moon I would try to make a start, But I, would rather you let me give my heart, To Sir, with Love ” Glee Rendition

 

 Day 12: The Retirement

I originally started this blog post on the 13th… which was about 3 days into the Love Cleanse. Well things happen: Family Issues, Second Job, maybe New Job, Sleep Deprivation, Softball win…etc

I kind of feel like Michael Jordan when he left the Bulls to play baseball… I left love to be single. And like MJ, I’m sure I’ll realize what a failure I am at baseball and go back to what I know best. But I better have tried all options first.

It’s not so much that I’ve given up on love…more like I’ve retired from the girlish love fantasies that have plagued my life since Simba met Nahla. The internal alarm clock has sung and the reality of life has kicked in. So long rose colored glasses… so long eternal optimism. Hello bitter-sweet cynicism.

Though I’m not really at such an extreme, I have safely shelved my Hollywood romance quest for a safer eyes-wide open approach. Instead of being the woman that I am: investing time and energy in a possibility vs. a sure thing; I’d like to be that kind of girl who can share her cookies with any hungry and willing partaker. Lay with them and leave’em: a true Mae West philosophy. “A dame who knows the ropes never gets tied up”.

I, unfortunately, am not that type of Dame–>I get more tied up than a bull at a rodeo. But what if I lived the type of life where when someone exclaims: “Goodness, xxx” I can respond “Goodness had nothing to do with it, dearie”.

I’ve placed a dam to obstruct the ebb and flow of love. I’ve just grown tired. I feel a hundred years older than my 22 years. I don’t think this was the point of the love cleanse: you’re supposed to go through the process and renew your love of love.  More importantly it’s a chance to find yourself in the miasma. Luckily I have found myself… but I can’t say that I’m too pleased with the discovery.

I’ve become the Carmen Jones of love: “One man give me his diamond stud, and I won’t give him a cigarette. One man treats me like I was mud, And what I got, dat man can get. Dat’s love, dat’s love, dat’s love, dat’s love. You go for me and I’m taboo. But if you’re hard to get, I’ll go for you… But once I got you, I go away.

It’s not that I ever go towards guys that are attainable… that would be too much to ask. I like the chase… To be the hunter. Pow Pow, you’re dead… and I walk away.

As I watched 500 Days of Summer it struck me that we all go through these phases where we search for perfection, not realizing that perfection has no depth. We try to find our emotional truth in a person who returns our kisses but not our ardor. Love is a phase, which can last or fade.

I’ve had good times *cough* half smile *cough*, love has taught me a lot; but I’m burying that knowledge until It’s ready to be realeased.

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Gravity

“Gravity it working against me. And Gravity wants to bring me down. I’ll never know what makes this man, with all the love his heart can stand, dream of ways to throw it all away. Gravity is working against me. And gravity wants to bring me down. Oh twice as much, aint twice as good. And can’t sustain like one half could. It’s wanting more that’s gonna bring me to my knees. [repeat] Oh Gravity, stay the hell away from me. Oh Gravity, has taken better men than me (and how can that be). Just keep me where the light is. Just keep me where the light is. Keep me where the light is. Keep me where the light is. C’mon keep me where the light is.” John Mayer

Sometimes I feel like I’m screaming and no one can hear me. I have a vast knowledge of words, and yet Latin spews from my lips. Though you hear me, you’re not listening close enough to understand.

I feel a thousand years old with no place to turn. When did people become so selfish? When did we stop caring about each other? When did we let our emotions blockade us from doing the right thing? When did humanity become misanthropic?

Maybe I’m wrong: wrong for thinking that we should take care of each other; wrong for thinking that we can have relationships without guile or artifice; wrong for thinking that we are stronger as a collective.

I’m lonelier than I’ve ever been in my life. Not betrayed so to speak, but knowing that I have no one with whom to talk about what’s going on… would you even understand? YOU DON’T EVEN LISTEN. Someone’s life is at stake and you’re asking me to watch her drown.

For the first time since becoming a Christian, I don’t feel connected with God. He’s in a coma and I’m diligently by his bedside waiting for movement. I know this is a test; another mountain to overcome, but my heart throbs from the loss of eternal comfort in this hour.

Is life an ever-revolving door of injustice and disloyalty that we’re asked to forgive but can’t forget? The worst part is the silence. Since the recent news of Thursday past, I’ve found myself just staring at walls. My smiles are forced; I”m in the group, yet I’m but a shadow of my former self.

I remember just last month when my smile was so easily forthcoming; where my the tiny sparkle in my eyes never ceased to charm. I’m on the outside looking in and the view is broken.

“So take a good look at my face. You’ll see my smile looks out-of-place. Look closer it’s easy to trace, the tracks of my tears” Smokey Robinson

Normally all I need is a good movie or a great historical romance to set the asymmetry of my life to a perfectly vertical line. But even with everything I’ve tried, I’m still 3 standard deviations away from dead center. And there’s no one here on the outskirts of this bell curve.

What to do? I better learn to face it alone… Perfidy is a bitch… but I guess that’s the reality check I needed.

I just need to focus my attention on not losing her and let all else come secondary. I don’t have time to the trifle wastes of time that weaned me away from life.

Keep me where the light is. If I go Rogue… I’m not sure what could bring me back.

I’d Rather Go Blind

“Whoo, whoo, I was just, I was just, I was just, Sittin here thinkin’, of your kiss and your warm embrace, yeah, When the reflection in the glass that I held to my lips now, baby, Revealed the tears that was on my face, yeah. Whoo and baby, baby, I’d rather, I’d rather be blind, boy, Then to see you walk away, see you walk away from me, yeah, Whoo, baby, baby, baby, I’d rather be blind…” Etta James

Day One of Cold Turkey: I watched His Girl Friday with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Under normal circumstances I’m a slave to Cary Grant’s charming personality and debonair style. But I was so  disappointed by Monsieur Grant. This is the man I’ve based all other men off of? The man who drives off his wife and then when she plans to remarry refuses to let her wed? Instead he “convinces” her with his hack-brained schemes that she’s better off with him. And she willingly obliges in the end, falling prey to his shenanigans.

Then I watched Cadillac Records with Adrian Brody, Jeffery Wright, and Beyonce. I sat awestruck as White Daddy Chess seduces Madame James while his wife and child sit at home staring longingly at the door for his return. So Etta sings I’d Rather Go Blind at the end of the movie to mark his departure from the record business and her life.

Is this what we count as love? Normally, I’d be all hero-worshipping and forlorn by the change of events; wanting this happy ending of star-crossed lovers. But with my new eyes I see this notion of love as manipulation by domineering bastards who want their cake, the pie, ice cream, and then the entire damn bakery. It’s never enough to want what they have, but they need more and more and the women fall in line like slack-jawed vassals. When did love become synonymous with barter? I gamble for your affection as I dangle my time and attention in front of your love starved nose; next time don’t tie my hands behind my back.

I’m tired of love being unattainable; unhealthy; unreal.

I wrote a poem… if you can call it that. I’m not much of a lyricist. I’m more of a verbalist, my words ink stains on the page.

Don’t talk to me about flowers, cuz flowers don’t grow where I live.

Don’t talk tome about lovers, cuz all the lovers I know have kids.

Don’t talk to me about proposals, a proposition I’m more likely to receive.

The last time someone flew me to the moon, I crashed hard from the blue little pill.

I stopped dreaming of Prince Charming, When the Prince of Pain showed up in his place.

I’ve lost myself in the music dreaming of rainbows and butterflies, as I compromise on thunderstorms and wasps.

For some, fantasies become reality and yet mine have tarnished. A Rembrandt fading in the sunlight. The artists brush strokes invisible as the cracks uncover the linen canvas underneath.

The hopeless romantic, lost in the treaty of Versailles. A family divided and separated across continents. The faint echos of their goodbyes whispered in the wind.

The loneliness stifles like a prisoner’s solitary confinement; where roaches and rats become long-lost friends; their stores more interesting than any of Aesop’s fables.

So Don’t talk to me of champagne, I’m more likely to overdose on box wine.

Don’t wink your eye or stand close enough that I can smell your cologne.

The truth is I’d rather remain exclusive.

I’d rather feel the grass tickle my toes;

I’d rather hear the silence than the peal of church bells.

I’d rather drown in the frigid constraints of my coverlet, than slink into Hades warm embrace.

No, Don’t talk to me about love, because love don’t live here anymore.

 

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