Entry tags:
(no subject)
I was talking to Mike tonight and got this very odd feeling.
He attended a marriage ceremony today -- his friend, ex-gf, housemate, Dawn held the ceremony in her garden. He talked about working with Dawn to get the garden ready, and how beautiful the ceremony was, and he was on his cell phone, describing the garden to me "and there's a bank of roses, hedge roses, all in bloom, a mass of reds with the dark green leaves; there's raspberries ripening, I can smell them...
And I realized, all of the sudden, that I'd probably never be able to give that to him, that kind of simple beauty and tranquility of space and time, that I'd never have it together enough, never have the patience and the willingness to be in the moment to produce the small, individual beauty of a garden. I wanted to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, trying to imagine a future where we'd be in the same place, trying to imagine that he would ever be happy with me; I wanted to tell him that I couldn't be ... that, which is so lovely and gracefully able to spend so much time making beauty in that small, sacred, private place.
Sitting here, right now (long after I should be sleeping), I know that he knows all of this. He knows -- but I wonder if he is maybe pretending that I could be that way (he's told me that he thinks I could do anything that I really want to do, and really, that's rather a scary thing in itself, isn't it?) or if he is really ok with this me (and how ok would I need for him to be?)
Certainly, there's a part of me that pines for that Alt!Lisa, who can feel the moments stream by, like water flowing across her fingers, and just be. Right now, as I type these words, there is that part of me cynically pointing out that I am only playing at all of this, indulging myself, in love with the words, playing with the fey -- that it's all an affectation, and I need to get over my bad self. Right?
I just ... the stars are singing, there is the taste of texture and the smell of sound. How can I turn away from that? There is only so much time to be who I've finally become, and I've started so late.
He attended a marriage ceremony today -- his friend, ex-gf, housemate, Dawn held the ceremony in her garden. He talked about working with Dawn to get the garden ready, and how beautiful the ceremony was, and he was on his cell phone, describing the garden to me "and there's a bank of roses, hedge roses, all in bloom, a mass of reds with the dark green leaves; there's raspberries ripening, I can smell them...
And I realized, all of the sudden, that I'd probably never be able to give that to him, that kind of simple beauty and tranquility of space and time, that I'd never have it together enough, never have the patience and the willingness to be in the moment to produce the small, individual beauty of a garden. I wanted to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, trying to imagine a future where we'd be in the same place, trying to imagine that he would ever be happy with me; I wanted to tell him that I couldn't be ... that, which is so lovely and gracefully able to spend so much time making beauty in that small, sacred, private place.
Sitting here, right now (long after I should be sleeping), I know that he knows all of this. He knows -- but I wonder if he is maybe pretending that I could be that way (he's told me that he thinks I could do anything that I really want to do, and really, that's rather a scary thing in itself, isn't it?) or if he is really ok with this me (and how ok would I need for him to be?)
Certainly, there's a part of me that pines for that Alt!Lisa, who can feel the moments stream by, like water flowing across her fingers, and just be. Right now, as I type these words, there is that part of me cynically pointing out that I am only playing at all of this, indulging myself, in love with the words, playing with the fey -- that it's all an affectation, and I need to get over my bad self. Right?
I just ... the stars are singing, there is the taste of texture and the smell of sound. How can I turn away from that? There is only so much time to be who I've finally become, and I've started so late.