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When he told me that he did not love me anymore - 2004:
No reaction. His hair reefed from the storm that day,
hands like two nets touching each other. Women in
my position throughout history have cried, have cast
bodies at their lover's feet. But me, no reaction: no
ellipsis where my heart should be. No monster on
my shoulders. No days after, nothing but cold pudding
in the refrigerator, wearing nothing but a pink bathrobe,
arms like doves or rain. No weeding the garden again.
And again, and again, so often that the children start
to notice and laugh. Not me. When he told me that
he no longer loved me, I felt like the universe was
listening and if I replied with a wail or cry, it would
judge me for it - open up, hook its beak into my
face, drag me from here. Women throughout history
know what I am talking about: there is a weakness
in us that makes us more written down than acted
out. But, there I was, no reaction: the universe teethed
a little, like a baby, as he said I was not beautiful enough
or perhaps I was an idiot or perhaps I was not good
enough in bed. The rosebushes, the potatoes, the
tomato plants needed weeding and I wanted to weed
them for hours. Instead, I grabbed him as if he were
Indian corn, his palms were sweaty, his face a little
more than halfway there. No reaction. For at least
fifteen minutes we stared at each other, no reaction.
Men expect weeping, they expect us to care a little
more than the universe wills us to care. Behind him,
the weatherman on television said there was a
75 percent chance of hurricane and violent winds.
Women throughout history are in the shape of
their parents. I kicked him in the scrotum,
I knocked him in the head. I did not have a reaction
for fifteen whole minutes and the universe
was in the shape of two dogs who meet for the
first time, sniffing asses, feeling each other out
for possible aggression or sadness. No reaction,
as he said he did not love me anymore, for
fifteen whole minutes because it took me that
long to realize he was serious.
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Comments
--
If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.
~ Brian Andreas
Thanks for writing,
J.
--
"Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior."
- Catullus
--
Paint the Truth.
--
so pregnant with meaning i am lactating not really
I love the breaking of that female stereotype that you've done. [I'm a bit of a hypocrite for saying that, cos I've been that stereotype before. But still.]
as he said he did not love me anymore, for
fifteen whole minutes because it took me that
long to realize he was serious.
Been there. Man, did I feel stupid.
When he told me that
he no longer loved me, I felt like the universe was
listening and if I replied with a wail or cry, the universe
would judge me for it - open up, hook its beak into my
face, drag me from here.
could be condensed into this:
When he told me that
he no longer loved me, I felt like the universe was
listening and if I replied with a wail or cry, the universe
would open up, hook its beak into my
face, drag me from here.
The ancient "show don't tell proverb" strikes again. If you can put it in an image, as you do so well, then I don't need you to explain it. I will figure it out myself.
A favorite line:
I wanted to weed
them for hours. Instead, I grabbed him as if he were
Indian corn,
I love the connection here between this man being the crop and you wanting to weed out the garden. You can't do it anymore because he is gone, but you want to weed out what is wrong with him, continue to help him grow and flourish. That is how i read those lines in such close conjunction with each other.
Anyway its been ages since I gave you any kind of extended analysis, so here is a bit. I figure it I owe it to you and right now I have the time.
--
Harmonize your inward and your outward life, and you soul will know no bounds of joy.
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