 |
| (from the loss album; photographer of original image unknown but found on Lilit Ghazaryan's blog) |
I've texted him twenty-one times
and still my phone don't ring
and my wild imagination, son, is
makin' up scary things...
no one shares a kiss like that
and then just doesn't call
last night he promised me the world
and now I’m gettin' nothing at all
 |
| (from the loss album; Pierre Auguste Renoir's "Woman With Green Chair") |
and the Mississippi's mighty
but it starts in Minnesota
at a place that you could walk across
with five steps down
and I guess that's how you started
like a pinprick to my heart
but at this point you rush right through me
and I start to drown
 |
| (from the loss album; altered and cropped image found on Hockridge's photography blog. Original image All Rights Reserved) |
I don't understand
your love is so cold
it's always me who's reaching out,
reaching out for your hand
where is your heart?
'cos I don't really feel you
where is your heart?
what I really want is to believe you
 |
| (from the loss album; picture widely available, but most notably seen on Katie Metcalfe's poetry blog) |
watching my dreams turning to ashes
and my hopes into bits of clay
once I could see, once I could feel
now I'm numb, I've become unreal
I walk the night without a goal
stripped of my heart, my soul
 |
| (from the loss album; altered image from unknown photographer) |
and so it is
just like you said it should be
we'll both forget the breeze
most of the time...
and so it is
the colder water
the blower's daughter
the pupil in denial...
 |
| (from the loss album; altered image from one of Anna Plotnikova's fashion shoots. (More info on Anna here) |
it seems so much is left unsaid
so much is left unsaid
but you can say anything
oh, anytime you need
baby, it's just you and me
Something interesting: as I put this together, an underlying theme became obvious: clay. Clay, water, earth, and the alchemy of change that makes them more than the sum of their parts. I've thrown clay on wheels, I've coil-built pots, I've taken various classes for various techniques when I have time. Building things has ever been an inherent hobby, if never occupation.
So maybe that's where I start. Find something to build. Walk away from the familiar, and see what else shows up. Disconnect, in a sense, to find connection elsewhere.
And this is going to be the last one, for at least a while. I lasted thirteen days, but it's enough. Enough enough enough. Declaring a moratorium on more relationship posts until at least August.
(Lyrics adapted from various sources, including "He Better Be Dead" from Stealing Angels, the Indigo Girls' song "Ghost" [this is a great cover by the Stanford Mixed Company], Shirley Bassey's "What Now, My Love?" [link goes to a performance on her 1967 television special], "The Blower's Daughter" from Damien Rice [using footage from the film "Closer"], and "Where Is Your Heart?" from Kelly Clarkson [link leads to a live performance on Music@AOL].)
2 Comments:
So maybe that's where I start. Find something to build. Walk away from the familiar, and see what else shows up. Disconnect, in a sense, to find connection elsewhere.
Introverts know this well. Take a step back (or several!) and recharge. Sometimes it's the only way to maintain what's left of one's sanity.
You're right, and that's also the most difficult part of this. Maintaining a life on the net (in various places) and a life beyond the keys, the obvious solution is to actually disconnect--as in, walk away from the comp for a while. Which...would be good advice, but I don't like feeling I have to give up the games I enjoy and the sites I like reading just to get away from one man.
I am taking more time off in general--the heat's been a handy excuse, as the computer's in the side office, which rarely has any air movement, even with a fan going. Still, it's wrenching, because if I'm not here, and he shows up again, what happens?
Maybe that's the point. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life waiting for potential news. If he really wants to reach me, he already knows how.
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