Love of Our Lives

I felt tired most of the afternoon, a feeling of heaviness, head and body. I took two walks with weights this morning - I think I overdid it. The sun's been on and off all day. I feel between things. The one I called isn't coming. So why continue to think of him? Well (as though, at the moment anyway, I can control it), if I don't other parts of me shut down.

It's okay. He was never coming. It's my frame of mind that's changed. I can still think of him. He helped.

I love very much. (I love him very much.) I am bursting with love. But my love needs an object. I need someone to love. A man. A man who loves me too.

Is a mind with biology too much to ask?

Maybe down the line the answer is in the line of a song on KZE this morning (don't know which). Maybe I need a brand new friend.

***
Indigo sun also rises. Interesting way to land on my blog. I wouldn't have thought of it. Lost generation. I feel myself to have been lost. I'm returning to the indigo concept again. I relate to it. I thought about it a few years ago and ultimately dismissed it.

***

Email from Belle to Amelia, 13 January 2006

... Boy, I feel like a fever broke with this Indigo thing. The idea seized me, but I've talked myself off the Indigo ledge now (sorry for the mixed metaphor). Gawd. That was close. We're all Indigo like we're all Human. Duh. Still, I'm glad I thought about it so intensely. It did help to clarify my thinking. And for some reason I'm getting the "narrative" concept better now, as it applies to one's own life...

***
Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of moving from Brooklyn upstate to this house, a subject I hardly even want to think about, so much has not gone the way either D or I would have wished or predicted.

But I took a stroll around the garden this afternoon. Trees, shrubs, bulbs, and perennials we planted are coming to life. So much to notice in the tiny buds of the maples, ash, hawthorne, willow, and even the river birches - hardly more than twigs stuck in the ground - that are gamely leafing out. Thumbelina, a Colorado spruce, is for the first time taller than me, a milestone. A viburnum transplanted to a sunnier spot last fall and that last week I thought was dead (brittle bud tips crumbled in my fingers) today has soft leafy sprouts, tender to the touch. In the front yard, my feet planted on the greening lawn, I looked up through branches of a young red maple, taller than me, budding out against clouds and sky.

Mona Lisas, Mad Hatters, and an Indigo Girl

Dearest, it's a very quiet day today. Am reading Maps & Legends. The universe granted me another chance so I checked it out of the library (g.s. eyeroll). Am reading that Arthur Conan Doyle's father was

an architect and painter who died, in a private sanatorium, of drink and of the bitter, self-aware madness that sees itself as damnation through an excess of sanity. His was the kind of madness that reads the random text of the natural world and finds messages and secret connections, the agency of elves and demons and other liminal beings. Charles Doyle burdened his son with a legacy of failure and a [rich and irrelevant] treasure... an eccentric way of looking at the world, of making it against all reason, cohere.

Not elves so much, but having lived through the last several months I relate to the foregoing. I find messages in the infrequent hits to my blog, and narratives that relate to you and me in many (maybe not all) of the songs on KZE. For example, I have constructed a mental picture of your marriage, in particular your wife, based on lyrics to an eponymously named song by Pink Martini. The fact that the song has your wife's name in it seems to me to go a bit beyond mere coincidence, but who knows. The story within the song also offers a snapshot of what I interpret to have been (note my tense - my conclusion based on the 12534's "Niagara Falls" post) your marriage - that she's so active and driven that she's always out the door - not there for you. (Another song, Nobody Knows Me, by Lyle Lovett - (you) hate to be alone on Sundays.) I also link it with a song KZE played just now - Conversation, by Joni Mitchell - basic needs for comfort and conversation unmet within a marriage. I wonder about a disturbingly dramatic Carolina Chocolate Drops song, Hit 'Em Up Style, the unleashed, destructive fury it describes - I am on the fence about whether this relates to the coherent narrative. But maybe it does.

I don't know what keeps me going in this. Every day is a struggle. My impetus for writing - heartfelt writing - is love, especially for you, or some other passion, such as, in the political sphere, being occasionally aroused strongly enough by an untruth or injustice that I feel sufficiently energized to articulate it. Sheer physical energy is a big issue with me - overcoming bodily fatigue and ache is often an effort of will - unless my passion or a particularly roused sense of duty - is aroused. Then I'm Superwoman!

Maybe you're not even reading this. But I don't really believe that. David Gray is on this very moment, singing Made Up My Mind. I believe him.

***

Near dawn this morning, lying by the stove listening to the radio, I felt a sense of validation when this song came on:

I am aglow with thoughts of you
Are the stories that you told me true?
It doesn’t matter if they are
They are to me
I am aglow

Some might say these thoughts are wrong
That you might see yourself in this song
I hope that you don’t mind if you do
I am aglow with thoughts of you

Does it matter that what I remember might be
Just my own imagination painting scenes more pretty
Is it obvious? Does it show?
With thoughts of you I am aglow

Some might say I’m thinking in sin
So I’ll just sit back and take you in
You’re a map of a place; maybe someday I’ll go
With thoughts of you I am aglow

Does it matter that what I remember is not true
Does it matter that all I can think of is you
Does it matter that what I remember might be
Just my own imagination painting scenes more pretty
Is it obvious? Does it show?
With thoughts of you I am aglow.

Sarah Harmer, I Am Aglow