You’re just bursting to tell someone…
My sweetlings, I’ve been quiet. And last night I saw Ani. And Ani always makes me feel like I’m always quiet, that I don’t speak up enough, that the things I’ve to say are important. And… well, my goodness. Dan Bern opened.
Dan Bern, who is phenomenal. Dan Bern, who makes me want to jump and laugh and listen to this song (go. now. listen to this song) over and over and over again, and who makes me want to call up Milo Milo and apologize for being selfish (Chris, I’m sorry), and oh, well, my goodness.
And the crowd made me remember who I used to be, and how unsure of who I am now, and how much I’ve changed. How I’m trying to fit back into someone’s idea of me, and I don’t really know who’s it is, but I’m not sure that it isn’t mine. When did I stop writing? This week I’ve made people laugh with sarcasm, and I’d forgotten how to use it. It’s like getting back onto a bicycle and sometimes I mess up and people look at me like I’m crazy, but you know, it’s fun. I’m sick of being this blob, this generic person existing in the world, but I don’t remember how to jump back into my body.
Does anyone else ever feel this way? Like you’ve lost the keys to yourself and know that you left your mouth running and the lights on, but the lock pick won’t be back for an hour. You stare into your eyes and watch as your autopilot just makes a mess of new situations. No? Okay. That’s fine.
The guilt’s washing away slowly. Everytime I do something wrong, against the rules, or generally not nice (like yelling at the guy in Michael’s today because he told me I don’t speak loud enough) it comes back to me that the only moment in my life that really mattered (so far), when I was on the phone with my mom and she was telling me to wait until morning to take the train, I thought “well, good, I can get some sleep.” And I could have spoken to my dad if I’d just gone on instinct. No. It’s still there. But a little more goes away every so often.
I miss him. I still think I’ll be able to talk to him when I call home. My mom’s just going through his bureau to donate his old clothes. I had a dream weeks ago where I finally admitted he was dead. I don’t know why that matters.
But I haven’t been speaking of it. Through being busy, or thinking that no one would get it, or thinking that people would just turn around to say that, Yes, I’m right, I am selfish, it’s kept me silent.
Maybe I really need to start getting to more concerts.
P.S. Don’t forget to vote. If you don’t vote you can’t complain to me about the state of things. And I don’t care if you write someone in or vote for Nadar (as long as you realize it won’t HELP get Bush out of office).
