Obladi oblada...
Nothing like lovely women to remind us that we're here and real. A phone call with Jenny and then Juliet. A Tuesday night dance party with Kirsten, Peregrine and I. Life does go on. and on. and on...
Immortality while tempting, must prove terribly lonely. My god, if one can't even make it through the night alone, what can one expect of an eternity missing all the people that we have loved and have left us.
Suicide for the undead? Deicide? I've been pulled back into myself, my identity, fractured but still integral. Tomorrow I will go consort with my cohort because, after all, I am what I am, isn't that what is said? Who am I to deny where I come from?
I should wear mini-skirts more often. I should, maybe all my days would end so enjoyably. Nothing like dancing around the living room with one of my favorite single moms, discussing masturbation (a sleep aid), drinking red wine (the surefire way to wind me up) and gyrating our booties to the ryhtms of our memories. Billy Jean, Respect, I will survive, I'm too sexy... with children clinging to us as we twirl eachother around in circles. Letting go, letting go. Living inside one's body, however imperfect or unloveable or in pain, letting loose with the music in swirling, sweating colors. Ragin' cajun music, and the Beatles to boot, and our children snake between our legs, rocking back and forth as our hips swing in time to the music, and their hearts beat faster. They fight, they hug, they cry, beg for a sleepover, half-clothed; and we push their bedtime back just a little bit longer, starved for adult attention, real conversation, release.
Immortality while tempting, must prove terribly lonely. My god, if one can't even make it through the night alone, what can one expect of an eternity missing all the people that we have loved and have left us.
Suicide for the undead? Deicide? I've been pulled back into myself, my identity, fractured but still integral. Tomorrow I will go consort with my cohort because, after all, I am what I am, isn't that what is said? Who am I to deny where I come from?
I should wear mini-skirts more often. I should, maybe all my days would end so enjoyably. Nothing like dancing around the living room with one of my favorite single moms, discussing masturbation (a sleep aid), drinking red wine (the surefire way to wind me up) and gyrating our booties to the ryhtms of our memories. Billy Jean, Respect, I will survive, I'm too sexy... with children clinging to us as we twirl eachother around in circles. Letting go, letting go. Living inside one's body, however imperfect or unloveable or in pain, letting loose with the music in swirling, sweating colors. Ragin' cajun music, and the Beatles to boot, and our children snake between our legs, rocking back and forth as our hips swing in time to the music, and their hearts beat faster. They fight, they hug, they cry, beg for a sleepover, half-clothed; and we push their bedtime back just a little bit longer, starved for adult attention, real conversation, release.
posted by ilana at 8:21 p.m.
2 Comments:
Me encanta el ritmo casi lírico que adquiere tu estilo en este texto. (Casi tanto como la sugerencia de usar minifaldas a menudo; tu esposo debe estar que brinca de contento).
Yuré, ya te estaba extrañando (ya que eres experto en levantar ánimos y acariciar egos;). Gracias... a veces me dejo llevar por el ritmo de las palabras... en otro orden de cosas, he estado escribiendo algunos poemas... si te da chance de dar una vuelta por allá, me interesaría tu opinión honesta, si no, no pasa nada.
Publicar un comentario
<< Home