I hate March. I miss Danny so mucand I’ve chased off all my friends. I’m alone and sad nd broke and feeling so sorry for myself. I couldn’t be more broken. Broken hearted, broken spirited, broken. Just plain broken an broke.
Flying solo this year? Don’t sweat it. Here are 51 ideas guaranteed to make your Valentine’s Day for one truly special:
- treat yourself to a nice dinner
- enjoy a big glass of wine
- listen to your favorite song
- dance like nobody’s watching
- realize your neighbor across the street is watching
- quickly shut the blinds and put your clothes back on
- figure the damage is done so you might as well leave your pants off
- pour another glass of wine
- imagine your smug neighbor telling his wife about what he just saw
- hope their marriage fails
- remember tonight is about you
- relax and get comfy
- top off your wineglass
A former student was polling her friends for her class at Berkeley. She asked, “What is love?” So, I thought a while. Surely, I have something to say about this. Love is an intensity one feels for something/someone who was an “other”. Somehow we recognize a kindred spirit which transcends age, gender, culture so that we bridge over “otherness” to join into a union of two others into one. It’s magic. The times I’ve fallen in love were the moments of recognition that I felt something intense for the beloved and he felt it for me, too. Words don’t describe it and memory never erases it. I have loved my friends, my family, my colleagues, but not in this way. It is easy to love those who are like us. But when I’ve loved a boy or a man, it was a flash, a thrill that nothing else surpasses. That moment when I know that I have become the “other’s” beloved, that sticks forever. And it is never an expected or anticipated feeling. It is a sudden surprise that I could relive over and over again in my memory, but never really count on experiencing again. I don’t know if that is my destiny or my downfall. But I know that if love comes again, it will be magic with no tricks or sleights of hand. But it will be magic all the same.
may be years in the way they measure,
but it’s only one sentence back in my mind
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails…
I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops
|—||Charles Bukowski (The Layover )|
Sometimes I want something so much that I get all twisted inside. The beauty is mixed with longing and the knowledge that no matter how accessible the desirable or beautiful appears, it can’t be possessed. And possessing the beautiful would tarnish the lustre that is part of the mystique and flavor of it. Just my desire to hold on or to get closer—to unite— with Beauty already taints it as if my notice oxidizes that which was beautiful and is now somehow crass and marred.
Why do I notice the things that can’t be had? Wouldn’t it be better to just look away, avert my gaze when I catch a glimpse of the youth on its way to age and sorrow. It is an awful thing to see just the blurred edge of the god moving out of range of mortal grasp or even the slightest touch. I reach out my hand to touch the forbidden sliding out of sight. The spirit moves and the flesh is left behind with the notion that perhaps there is more than mourning and grief. There is the burst of Beauty as it goes beyond the eye’s periphery, beyond the fingers’ touch, beyond desire’s caress. And all I can do is watch. and long. and curse until he passes and I can sleep again
My beautiful picture of pirates and treasure
Is spoiled, and almost I don’t want to start
To put it together; I’ve lost all the pleasure
I used to find in it: there’s one missing part.
I know there’s one missing - they lost it, the others,
The last time they played with my puzzle - and maybe
There’s more than one missing: along with the brothers
And sisters who borrow my toys there’s the baby.
There’s a hole in the ship or the sea that it sails on,
And I said to my father, “Well, what shall I do?
It isn’t the same now that some of it’s gone.”
He said, “Put it together; the world’s like that too.”
|—||Andrew Boy (via seabois)|
From a former student, Melissa B.:
Mrs. Byrnes: Inside is something I wrote about you. I know you don’t like reading student poetry for fear that it’s terrible…So you don’t have to, and I won’t know either way, but I figured you had a right to if you wanted to. Thank you so much: I don’t have the right words to tell you how much you have helped us and how much I admire you for being as strong and caring as you are.
There is something to be said
For a woman who takes her pain,
folds it at the familiar creases
and tucks it into bed to sleep for a while
So that she may take hold of
someone else’s if only for
a moment—that moment was enough—
and still have the courage to
return to her own sorrows:
stroke its hair,
the tear on its cheek,
to embrace again,
to look forward…
But I do not have the words.