People let me slip through their hands all the time: in friendship, love and bed. Since I have decided to dedicate my time to writing, I might as well become exhibitionistic and portrait myself with one of my favourite girls: my sister's eldest daughter. It's a good picture because I wear my hair straightened (black curls done away with for this early springtime afternoon) and no one will recognize me by this snapshot. My eyes reveal I have been drinking a little and the devilish red T-shirt contrasts well with the innocent white dress of the child. It will come as no surprise that later that day I left and set off into the night to go drinking and dancing. Another reason why no one will recognize me, is that most people don't team me up with kids. Someone clever recently told me that I have an excellent profile to become a writer: rock 'n roll life and no kids, just like many other female text-knitters. I should take up smoking again.Anyway. This is me. My life consists of a family I deeply love, some good friends, work and a flat in an apartment building filled with elderly people who once in a while lack some sleep over my bed shrieking under the weight of 2 moving figures - one of them afterwards leaving without looking back.
Some will say I bring that on myself - the fact that men do not look back - because I don't contain sufficient seriousness to keep their motor running. However, what has never ceased to intrigue me (ever since my first major loss), is how people manage to carry the weight of seriousness along all meadows and paths they come across in life. STOP IT! Stop, stop, stop! Take it away, for seriousness has never added any weight to your love or loyalty, which are weightless and unmeasurable by nature.
In my unserious vocabulary you will stumble upon my unchangeable me.
I love you.
For the serious person you are.
For your red hair and shoes.
For the ghosts you see at night.
And you for your addictions.
You for being the doctor.
For being gone.
For eating my food.
For changing your mind.
For understanding my fears and numbed pain.
And you? You for not knowing me at all.
posted by Sandy at 5:32 PM
2 Comments:
If only you set your mind to it, you could get rich with this. You are worth much more than you let yourself believe. You are beautiful, fun, funny, intelligent and you dare to explore. You don’t mean to harm anyone. You are the best dancer and the best writer I have come across. And you are fickle as hell.
You underestimate me. Seriousness is not my main trait. My main traits are that I am intelligent, quick thinking, a good planner, a problem solver, a carer. I like to enjoy myself above all and I, as well, do not want to do any harm. I am straightforward - admirable and a burden. I use a good deal of self-mockery to soften the blows this deals. I keep as far away from self-deception as I can. I am not funny but I love to laugh. I am headstrong, critical, logical, analytical. I like good company and I like to be by myself. I can get along with anyone but I don’t need too. I love so many things in life that I haven’t enough time for all of them. I can be casual but I speak my mind when I care most. I don’t do shallow very well. (That is an understatement.) I am, however, extremely dependable and just. I am trusting. I would let myself get conned every time. And I do.
I feel for people who are not like me. I never ever want to change them into me. I need discussion, argumentation. Half of the time my arguments are flawed so I do not need to win. But I need things in the open. I cannot be any other way. I have all kinds of life experiences; I have all sorts of sizes in my wardrobe except the smallest ones, which is a good thing – at least I won’t starve from undernourishment anytime soon. I look forward, I learn every day. I have no moral judgement about consuming men. Maybe I would jump at the chance myself, if I got it. This is no issue of mine, why do you make it so? More importantly, why do you make it yours – there is no need.
I like appointments, order. I am nearly always late. Looking forward to something is half the fun. I save the cherry on the cake for last, but not fanatically – I have been known to throw caution to the wind and have my cherry first, or halfway. Or one third of the way. I do not change my mind. I have been called indecisive, which is deceptive. I am clear about what I want. I take a long time to decide because I need it to be the best decision possible. I crave perfection. I know there is no such thing. I aim for it anyway. It is all or nothing with me. My house is clean or dirty as hell. Apparently, my life is either in perfect order or a complete shambles. I muddle on. I will always survive. I am certain of this, although I know nothing is certain. Most of all, I know that everything changes, all the time. If I could only learn not to care so much that I do not eat or sleep. It would make life a hell of a lot easier. But nobody is perfect – again.
I am so romantic you wouldn’t believe it. I believe in the good in people. I know it is not always there. I want to hope it is. I know my job doesn’t define me. I have more important things in life. I am modest. I abhor pretentiousness. I loathe violence. I am impatient. I give people a lot of time before I let myself be short-tempered. Compromise and diplomacy didn’t feature in my dictionary for a long time. They got pencilled in bit by bit – you could say they are there in grey and white, as if still earning their place, as if still being held in consideration, their values evaluated. I can not abide friends who make me feel untreasured. I do not need to get on with everyone and I do not regard this as a flaw. I need people to accept who I am. And if they can not accept this and me, then no amount of goodwill on either side will ever erase this. Nothing will grow on barren fields. We need to face up to incompatibility. There is no dagger drawn, no pistol loaded. I am empty-handed and tired. It wears me out keeping contact with anyone who is so scared of me or what I will say that I will never know what I can say and cannot. I especially do not need any bystanders to fight any fictitious battles for me.
We have only three things in common. The first is that we are each worth ten Miss Universes; they are not even fit to kiss our feet – if only you could never doubt that. The second is that we love dancing the night away. The third is that writing lifts up a corner of the veil shrouding our true self.
We both know I am the most consistent reader of your blog. I am the one who comes with you either to choose a bra or a new floor. I am the one who is not disturbed by being surrounded by people speaking Italian. I am the one who cuts vegetables and takes away your keys. I am the one who sees where it goes wrong and who gets punished for it. I am the one who sends cards and doesn’t mind not getting any. I am the one who prepares her couch although it always turns out not to be necessary (which I know). Except for the one time that I think there is no need to prepare it. I am the one who likes food more than you and has less trouble with it. I am the one who shuts up because she knows she will not be understood. I am the one you will never go on holiday with because we will not last two minutes together. I am the one who never usually gets to make these decisions. I am the one who does not feel befriended. Not because I sport alone or because I go to every one of my concerts or gigs or lectures or museums or cities on my own. I need that. That is me. But because no explanation I give ever seems good enough. No date with me seems worth keeping or at least not with me alone. No operation of mine will stand in the way of any of your men. Only half of my questions ever deserve an answer. And half of the things you think I am, I am not.
We are too different. I am at least half a Rain Man. I face up to this. Will you ever face up to who you are?
I do not want to change you. I do not want to be changed. We do not know what any of us is like on the inside. We never will do. I will see you around. I wish you well.
8:05 PM
You are right. I mean no harm, was bred into fickleness for years and tend to underestimate life as it is. I will not change.
I know a quote or two, by heart. One of them, 'damaged people are dangerous, they know they can survive', goes for both of us. My strategy is slaughterhouse psycho or stuffing dead bodies into closets, only to let them come out at night.
My soil is tamped down clay, my land barren with shallow wells. And I do not care.
In abundance.
I wonder how I broke my own back. Did I? No, I could not. It is unbreakable like a liana. That's what erratic people hold on to until they let go.
Hats off to your decisiveness, but, please, reconsider. You are wrong. No decision is ever perfect or final. Blankets woven from irrevocable yarn may keep you warm for a while, but not all through the winter. I am not scared of you and have never wanted you to be any different than what you are. Just reconsider, give yourself some credit and believe that I truly miss your company.
2:27 PM
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