hagiography

it's easy, you just walk away, on both your legs, face bent to the ground, shoulders hunched against the wind, hands in pockets.

rejection comes in many forms, robotic, hypnotic, slightly chaotic misunderstandings and blanched, plastic judgments.  hardly anyone ever says what they THINK or how they FEEL.  instead we're bound up in mysteries and miseries of politics and hyperbolic necessities, delivered through clenched teeth and arses.

i should have a mule to hoik all this baggage.

today i woke up crying with the weather, slack, and saggy like my luggage.  i don't think i've tied it on tightly enough, words and stories and MEanings are falling out of my bags, rough woved hemp, damp from rain, frayed and unraveling in parts.  and i don't have a saddle, no point, only got a mule.  stubborn creature.

there's three pictures on my wall, kids hand prints, green, red and purple.  we made them some christmases ago when their paws were small enough to fit on to those little rectangles of cheap, factory produced canvas.  i inherited my hands.  tiny.  overly lined.  they look like they've been in a wash tub twelve hours a day for twenty years.  i was born to work.  used to love that, in by nine, an hour for lunch, home by six.  we all had our own mugs.  i read take a break then.  kept my nails nice.  filing was my real joy though.  everything has its place and everything in its place.

these days i'm sending stuff off.  STUFF.  i hunt around and find someone who might read it and accept it.  i go through their lists of what they want.  i edit and re-edit and scowl at the senseless dribbling.  i think i've become alzheimer's, jibbering, jabbering, babbling.  fiona was saying about that dreadful realisation, when she was banging her head over and over into a wall, how she suddenly knew that she wasn't going to go mad.  it would've been a relief to go mad.

i LOVE fiona.

so yeah, i'm banging my head against a brick wall, figuratively not literally, and i just KNOW that there's no escape.  maybe i should move sideways a bit, or something, find the bloody door, kick that down.  OR i could walk away, on both my legs, face bent to the ground, shoulders hunched against the wind, hands in pockets.