Saturday the beautiful, M's b-day and so on
if someone is in our life
and we are talking to them
and we know we are talking to
them
and we know they are
sort of listening to us
and sort of thinking what to say
and sort of lost in whatever whatever
we are awake
and in conversation
this is hard,
and in a dream
last night
i was explaining the Gurdjieff
idea of remembering ourselves
to a group
of people
and was remembering myself
as i did it.
amazingly high
feeling
and now,
for the
glories of today:
Marlie had party at garden
semi surprise
and very nice.
see her almost blog; MarvelousMarlie.blogspot.com
and National Writing Month
continues:
today's excerpt:
“And if you kill yourself, then I’m a failure, so we can have something in common. Would you like me better if I were a failure.”
Jasper grins. Twenty five. Wound up. Rich kid out on his own. Confused as hell. Pissed about the poverty of the spirit that seemed central to all the jobs that wanted him. Spoiled a bit, parents paying for therapy. Poor little rich boy with the usual lack of love and self confidence of those who haven’t had to overcome real obstacles.
“Yeah. I’d like you a lot better if you were a failure, too.”
“Okay. I am a failure.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“My boyfriend just went off with another woman after I discovered them making out together in a park that he knows is practically my favorite place in the world.”
He looks at her. She is sad. A little. Not enough. But still. That is kind of a failure. “How long were you together?”
“Five years.”
“Okay. That counts as a failure.”
“Feel better?”
“Actually. Not really. But I like you more.”
“I’ll try to fail more often.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Okay. I’ll try to learn from my mistakes.”
“What mistakes did you make with him?”
“I didn’t listen to his silences and learn that they were unhappy and not just private.”
Jasper gets scared. This woman is smart. He doesn’t really hate her. He desperately wants her to like him, no, love him, why couldn’t he have had a mother with sensitivity and intelligence, or at least one of the two. A drinker and a stinker and someone who’s idea of thinking was to call the Democrats “socialists.” What a stupid bitch.
“I hate my mother.”
“So do I,” says Karen, somehow wanting to confuse Jasper’s poor me, little child bereft and alone act.
“You hate my mother without even knowing her. Because she was so mean to me?”
“Mean Mom. ‘Mean’ means, didn’t do what I wanted. No, your Mom is fine until proven guilty. Mine was an insensitive cow. For a couple of minutes I’ll join in your indulgence and hate her.”
“A couple of minutes? I’ve hated my Mom for years.”
“And that’s got her to shape up? The way killing her will.”
“You are going too fast.”
“Killing yourself punishes her. She feels bad that she has failed with you. It bothers her until the stupid shit that always diverted her from paying real attention to you once more diverts her and she is back into lala land.”
“She is from L.A.”
“Okay. I’ll hate her, too. Does one good to hate all the insensitive Moms in L.A.”
“That’s a lot of Moms,” says Jasper, almost with humor. Gallows humor is always the first step. No, is a crucial first step to finding a philosophy of living in a fucked up, narcissistic, lopsided and shitholes world.
Is that really what she thinks the world is????
Labels: birthday, humor, Marlie, november novel writing month, suicide as scam, therapy
