Saturday, December 16, 2006

What I Wish I'd Written.



This morning the many lovely words I'd read rode through the hours. They held me together; they stood solid and deep in my head and took up space which might have otherwise been occupied by less interesting ideas. I giggled giddily over and over again. I floated through the morning serving lots of alcohol to very few people.

A group of 50 something women came in and drank a bunch of Grey Goose cosmopolitians and then wine and then sambucca and baileys and frangelico. They were a merry bunch, exchanging gifts and breaking glasses left and right. I liked them enough; they spent money and were pleasant, apologetic and thankful. Their gifts were rather frightening though. They made me cringe and look away. They traded different unnecessary house items. Raindeer shaped candle holders. Raindeer patterened hand towels- meant for show not for use. Different, ugly Christmas ceramic statuettes- not even ornaments- just things which sit on tables. The degree of unnecessary items was rather appalling.

Luckily, I also waited on a fellow whom I like a great deal. His name is George Lewis and I only recently realized that "George Lewis told the Englishman, the Italian and the Jew". He is a lover of Burgundy, like myself, and we had long and lovely talks about the hit or miss quality of Burgundy in general. We spoke of wine laws in MD and elsewhere and the fact that Burgundy is so full of independent vingerons as opposed to big company owners in Bordeaux. I love Burgundy. He gave me a beautiful glass of Gevery-Chamberin Serafin. It was a bit tart for noon but it was terribly fruity. I'm drinking a rather pleasant Burgundy now.

On the ride home from work I watched the trash on the street swirl around in circles, the leaves blew by and some of them got caught up in the whirlwind. I thought of the way things move in circles; I thought of all the many things swishing around chasing each others' tails. I got a letter this evening from someone I used to call "friend", someone I used to call "love". He sends me bitter, spiteful lashes through lazy, quick words. And they tear through me, with what little truth they hold.

He tells me I am scared to be alone. And I know I haven't been alone in some time. But, I also know it is not because I am scared but it is because I care for people so intensely and so deeply. He does not realize that it takes much more courage to open yourself up to people, to love people with everything you are than it does to simply be alone, to just suffocate in your own stillness. I would like to be alone. I think it everytime I spend more than three hours in my own company. I think I would be a very different person if I spent any significant time alone. But, I also am so bound to other people, so bound to other peoples' words. I am bound to so many dead people; I am bound to them by the words that they left, by the words that I love. They live inside me- as real as the people I make. They live alongside me- as real as the people who grow as I grow.

If only I didn't lose Fernando inside so many attempts at discovering myself. He seems to be hiding; I am trying to find him. But I am always writing about my own days and so his days stay in the shadows of what I wish I'd written.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

If a Nazi party rose simply to justify killing people who give others Christmas themed gifts on Christmas, I'd be the first in line to join the Gestapo.

8:01 PM  

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