![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Jan. 12th, 2010 12:14 pmheh.
I am writing from Haymarket - the one in my town not the one in Boston. I have joined the hipsters typing away in coffee shops around the globe, listening to jazz (an instrumental of My Favorite Things) and focussed on their issues elsewhere. We are legion. We are oblivious. We are the future?
Mostly I am trying to look like I am not eavesdropping. There is this guy at the next table who has found post-divorce personal fulfillment, the secret of parenting, how to let things go, and how to be happy, and he has been telling his date? girlfriend? about it for the last hour solid. She just sits there, I can't tell if she is defensive, worried, bored.... her back is to me. She doesn't talk, doesn't answer back.
I think about the way Al and I talk when we are out for lunch on Fridays, and I seldom hear men and women talk the way we do.
I burst into tears in the middle of the women's locker room, thinking about Bully. It just ambushed me. No horse.
Al says I shouldn't have gone to the barn after I knew for certain he was dead. But I am glad I did. Glad to have patted him once more, even if he wasn't home in that body anymore. I am deeply grateful I wasn't there when the people came to take his body away. The barn owner said it was gruesome, and wouldn't say more, from kindness I think.
The back of my car is full of his stuff, and I am slowly returning the pieces I borrowed. I have to get the rest back to his owner. I have a new saddle. Now I have two saddles, both ancient, both insanely comfortable. I wonder if mine will fit Kaboose.
My mother tries to find the lesson, the good thing, in everything. Someone's troubles have to have some kind of usefulness. I am perfectly happy to believe that random crap happens, and to try to work my way through it on my own. I had to try to explain this to her - Please DO NOT try to tell me this is for the best, that I am doing well from it somehow. I'm not. Really, I am holding on by my fingertips, and if you try to point out any good thing, even if it is true, I will have a hard time agreeing right now. It is, it turns out, remarkably hard to tellyour my mother to shut up.
new haircut. need a hat. spamming LJ. gotta run.
I am writing from Haymarket - the one in my town not the one in Boston. I have joined the hipsters typing away in coffee shops around the globe, listening to jazz (an instrumental of My Favorite Things) and focussed on their issues elsewhere. We are legion. We are oblivious. We are the future?
Mostly I am trying to look like I am not eavesdropping. There is this guy at the next table who has found post-divorce personal fulfillment, the secret of parenting, how to let things go, and how to be happy, and he has been telling his date? girlfriend? about it for the last hour solid. She just sits there, I can't tell if she is defensive, worried, bored.... her back is to me. She doesn't talk, doesn't answer back.
I think about the way Al and I talk when we are out for lunch on Fridays, and I seldom hear men and women talk the way we do.
I burst into tears in the middle of the women's locker room, thinking about Bully. It just ambushed me. No horse.
Al says I shouldn't have gone to the barn after I knew for certain he was dead. But I am glad I did. Glad to have patted him once more, even if he wasn't home in that body anymore. I am deeply grateful I wasn't there when the people came to take his body away. The barn owner said it was gruesome, and wouldn't say more, from kindness I think.
The back of my car is full of his stuff, and I am slowly returning the pieces I borrowed. I have to get the rest back to his owner. I have a new saddle. Now I have two saddles, both ancient, both insanely comfortable. I wonder if mine will fit Kaboose.
My mother tries to find the lesson, the good thing, in everything. Someone's troubles have to have some kind of usefulness. I am perfectly happy to believe that random crap happens, and to try to work my way through it on my own. I had to try to explain this to her - Please DO NOT try to tell me this is for the best, that I am doing well from it somehow. I'm not. Really, I am holding on by my fingertips, and if you try to point out any good thing, even if it is true, I will have a hard time agreeing right now. It is, it turns out, remarkably hard to tell
new haircut. need a hat. spamming LJ. gotta run.