Thursday, July 19, 2012


Unquestionably, he is beautiful. But I am sick of beauty and crave to let my eyes rest on sleeping cats, fat and clean on a pile of newspapers that fell on the floor. Mundane things, like address plaques with chipped numbers. A poplar split in two to accommodate a power line. There's a wishbone in the kitchen, hanging on a curtain rod. When it's dry, I don't mean to wish anything with him. He knows it's there; normally, we would have broken it by now, laughing, poking the winner to admit their wish. But he's very careful with his words. He almost says nothing. I'm sick of his beauty and sick of his morose silence.

It's like when someone dies that you have loved: If you are old enough, you know to wait, that another night will ease the pain just a tiny stitch. Enough stitches and someday, you'll realize you haven't thought about them in days. When weeks go by, you feel guilty. For not having thought of the person you said you loved. To their face, you said it. But you forgot them, for a while, and you feel guilty. And one day, you won't feel guilty.

There are only a few stitches, holding my guts in. I haven't got to the point where I want to tear them out and start again, but it's close. When I do, I'll look instead at the basil, yellowing in its pot on the patio. At the white lantern with the dead wasp curled inside. At the things that remind me that the universe sometimes neglects things, too, and I shouldn't be afraid to let some things go. Maybe even the beautiful things.


  1. There is such a sense of truth behind your portrayal of loneliness and sorrow that it would scare the shit out of me to probe further.

    I hope there isn't this depth of hurt in your life, as I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but if there is, then extra admiration your way for dragging it into the light in so eloquent a fashion.

    You've got "it", lady!

    1. I'm trying for something pithy and witty, but... nada. All I've got is a huge thank you, Chris.

  2. She could have regretted the fact that she never said "I love you" but saying it would have been such a huge thing and no one ever expected it, so she didn´t give it much thought, if any.

    The museum launched a new exhibition, big style. It featured an entire house built and decorated in 1970s style. After he died, she went there. Stood in the kitchen staring into the fridge filled with things from her childhood. She was gently lead out when the museum closed at 5 p m.

    Her daughter wore a white dess with Summer flowers dancing along the hem. "I´ve got three dresses and this is the one I wear to funerals," declared the child and her grandmother laughed through tears, but managing to cry is a gift, she thought, a gift.

    Her feelings were of epic proportions so there was no way to express them. For a while she tried to act normal and then, when she couldn´t cope, she invented a new reality for herself. In it, pain was unrealistic and love was unheard of.