eeeeeeeeeek

EEEEEEEEEEK. It's the first day of the 3rd month of what I still feel is like the Brand New year. Only it's not still brand new and I am turning into an Old Lady.

EEEEEEEEEEK.

Around 2am last Sunday morning (or late late Saturday night, if you like), I was sitting on the pink balcony of lovely FijiBoy's apartment in his brother-ful highrise in town and having milo sans sucrose and laughing, laughing my guts up. Surrounded by people who belong to FijiBoy who know who they are even if they don't know where they're going. And all of them are young. And sweet. And just good people really.

And I was thinking why is ricebag this churning yearning mess inside? Why cannot she see the beauty of of a live experience whilst it's happening instead of sometime after it occurred. And how can she not know that her worth is NOT made up singularly of the negative sum calculation based on the gaps created from missed opportunities, lost loving and unfollowed promise.

Why cannot I remember that people and lovers are the sum of the whole score with all our fractions lumped together - those fractions, pitchers of hope and fear, markets of understanding and committments, novels of solitude and plenty, but mostly the fractions of action - actions we engaged in, initiated, effected ... the things we brought and stuff we shed and the way we made other people feel ... the words we wrote and the coffee we drank and the lies we told and the pleases we said and the smiles we made on the faces of others ... we are the memory someone else has of us and the prayer someone else prays for us and the tears someone else sheds for us and the desire someone else feels for us ... we are the doors slammed and the toast burnt and the watermark and the unravelling thread and the trailing perfume ... we are the daydream and the champagne and the loose change and the stolen kiss ... we are the working hands, the sweat, the pride, the rash, the dirt ... we are the breast, the bone, the nose, the hip ... all those things, all those moments, all the parts, all the divisions, all the touch, all the lack of touch, all the lonely and some of the rich ... and mostly we are the love that we didn't always deserve. That's the stuff that fills the gaps left by other-things-that-did-not-happen-instead. And (maybe) that's the stuff we're made of.

90% of ricebag is still feeling like the rest of her life is about to start (!!!!!!) ... I know I know ... Crazy Old Lady. That 90% says resign everything to Passion and Art and A Very Real Dream. But it's that little 10% left over that holds a lotta lotta sway and It says that the times, they are a changing. Ricebag's daydreams now consist partly of vague ideas of getting a dog and buying a house and upgrading the car ... wow!! How incredibly pedestrian I would have said just less than a year ago ... and I still feel that. Not as a judgement on others, more a sign of ricebag putting up the boots on my "true promise" in some small way.

My old Dreaming Self still wants me to do something Reckless that everyone else can say "I'm glad you can do that but it's not for me" as they go back to their goodgood income-tax-paying lives while ricebag jumps in the deepend without lifejacket ... that Dreaming Self wants to make her Big Dream come real ... the problem is, that bloody big dream is fucking changing itself and that's why ricebag is squealing ....... EEEEEEEEEEEK.