A Sufficiency

[greenstorm]

Looks like I'd better strap in, the rollercoaster is beginning.

I'm starting to miss Blake. I'm starting to love people. I'm starting to feel sad. Tiny bursts of anger occasionally fire in random directions.

Finally.

I made some graff yesterday -- I will try to give some to Blake. He loves booze, he loves that series. It will be ready to drink in 4/5 weeks or so, so I guess I'd better start getting a handle on things by then. It is ineffably sad to make something with my own hands that is perfect for someone I love and think it might be rejected because of who I am.

I also found something on greatpoets. It's been a long time, no? But she got it:

This is the Nonsense of Love

I.
Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password.
We love like spies, like bruised prize fighters,
like children building tree houses.

Our love is serious business.
One look from you and my spine
reincarnates as kite string.

When I hesitate to hold your hand,
it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing.

II.
There is no clean way to enter
the heavy machinery of the heart.

Just jagged cutthroat questions.
Just the glitter and blood production.

III.
The truth is this:
My love for you is the only empire
I will ever build.

When it falls,
as all empires do,
my career in empire building will be over.

I will retreat to an island.
I will dabble in the vacation-hut industry.
I will skulk about the private libraries and public parks.

I will fold the clean clothes.
I will wash the dishes.
I will never again dream of having the whole world.

Mindy Nettifee

In the meantime the weather is beautiful, it is the ideal fall. My kousa wine is interesting and fun, and I am plotting what to make next.

Comments

[sheistheweather]

I read this. Hearts are difficult things. Graff sounds delicious.

[greenstorm.livejournal.com]

The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart
Margaret Atwood

I do not mean the symbol
of love, a candy shape
to decorate cakes with,
the heart that is supposed
to belong or break;

I mean this lump of muscle
that contracts like a flayed biceps,
purple-blue, with its skin of suet,
its skin of gristle, this isolate,
this caved hermit, unshelled
turtle, this one lungful of blood,
no happy plateful.

All hearts float in their own
deep oceans of no light,
wetblack and glimmering,
their four mouths gulping like fish.
Hearts are said to pound:
this is to be expected, the heart’s
regular struggle against being drowned.

But most hearts say, I want, I want,
I want, I want. My heart
is more duplicitous,
though to twin as I once thought.
It says, I want, I don’t want, I
want, and then a pause.
It forces me to listen,

and at night it is the infra-red
third eye that remains open
while the other two are sleeping
but refuses to say what it has seen.

It is a constant pestering
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child’s fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don’t want.
How can one live with such a heart?

Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.