"We are always getting ready to live, but never living." -Emerson

September 05, 2008 Candace Morris 9 Comments

i am feeling it so acutely these past hours, the hours alone without joel.

i feel it when i drive in the forested darkness, tice's music loud enough for the heavens to participate...chills and visions head-lighting the asphalt.

Sept 4 - going places, originally uploaded by mme.bookling.

i feel it when i finally make myself go to bed after struggling with all the chores i seriously cannot muster up the desire to do. when no one else is there, it's so hard for me to care about the house. and this makes me wonder, how much of who i am and what i do is because of my role in my marriage. so i plant my succulents instead of doing the four-day old pile of dishes. i leave my clothes on the bathroom floor and don't put away my shoes...but all the while wondering why i don't feel this way when i am being a wife...and then floods of questions and gratitude and then, the most acute missing of my husband hushes me towards bed.

i watch an episode of My So-Called Life in bed, and weep through the whole thing.

i fall asleep, surrounded by pillows and the cold, empty sheets. release the grief pressing upon me...in the form of salt and water...wondering how i have allowed myself to be so consumed with stupid things.

i wonder at the miracle of music, art, books. glory in how art, and often only art, can bring me back to myself again. tice's album, a show, a photograph, a word....the only things that stab this thick shell (which i love about myself - but which is also often hard to penetrate) and remind me that indeed, i must be living. look, soul, look at how deeply i feel it!

i sometimes feel it in spring and fall - like plath says - when nature convinces us we are as young as we ever were (not exact quote). but when does it all start?

i want to grab my life like a snow-globe and point to the parts where i lived.
i want to shake it and demand that its snowflakes are the moments when i finally grasped it...the direction,
the divine curse'd destiny that
worn out
like leaves gnawed into gaping, cavernous holes by mr. caterpillar.
only unlike him, i never seem to fully emerge from the metamorphosis.

"when does it start?" i scream.
"when do i get to LIVE?!!!!!!"

i wept for me last night, this morning, today. if i don't, no one will - not because they don't want to, but because they simply cannot. i am the only human who knows me so well - and i have a responsibility to attend its dramatic performance.

i wept because i have no art.
i wept because i have no silver.
i wept because i have no more music.
i wept because i have no eye or hands.
i wept because i have no remarkable worldly beauty.
i wept because without these arts, i cannot possibly have lived or enriched other's lives as they enrich mine.
i wept because i have only me to work with.

i wept because i think that's remarkable.

because of all of this weeping and pondering, i was up until 2am.
when i walked to work again today two hours after my normal start time, i saw my building as i descended into downtown. that one stationary structure in which i have spent 4,160 hours of my god-given breath, and for what? do i live now? is it okay to not live for a while so you can live more fully later?

i pray for the days to end, the weeks to fly by in a flash towards the weekends - but all of a sudden, weeks and months have passed, and i am 30. have i lived? have i really grabbed it and looked at it for all the beauty, for all the nonsense, for all the damn'ed pain?!

and if i have, tell me,

and then i want to slow the weeks and days - but if i do, THEN will i live? only if i feel every moment profoundly? even the moments of boredom and drudgery? fie.

my heart pounds, my palms sweat.
i want to grab it.
i feel it so acutely.
i just weep.

i see something simple and funny.
i must capture.
i mean it...today, i really have to.
it's what i randomly grabbed for breakfast, lunch, and afternoon snack.
comment amusant, non?

"Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
~Shakespeare (from MacBeth)

very acutely yours,

You Might Also Like