My accomplishments for the day include half-emptying my laundry bin, going halfway through two blog posts, resiting the urge of soda, and not giving in to the first move.
It is raining outside. B texted me as I’d expected he would. I do not know what to feel. My feelings, by the same token, do not know me as well. I guess we’ve reached a dead end. All three of us: B, Myself, and My Feelings.
I would have tucked myself inside the blanket but the rain outside told me to jot this down. Something about turbulence and tranquility and why we should write in between. Anyway, I plan to sleep on this and fuel my happy hormones for tomorrow’s work. Ah work–the brokenhearted’s greatest antidote.
Also, a poem by Anne Sexton. I just thought it fit.
Admonitions To A Special Person
by Anne Sexton
Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.
Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you’ll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.
Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.
Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.
Watch out for games, the actor’s part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.
Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won’t be heard
and none of your running will end.
Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
if I were you I’d pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you’ll root
and the real green thing will come.
Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.