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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, sugarlips.
Here And There 06-May-2005 12:04 a.m.
"I'm not who I was and I'm not where I'm going." -Shawn Colvin
I can usually think of a million things I want to say when I'm out walking, but then I sit down to say them all and can't seem to remember what they were. Or they sound stupid without the night sky and the music washing over them, casting graceful light and sculpting these fluid, mysterious shapes and patterns that almost make me want to tear the thought out of my head and kiss it. Or eat it.
I am $300 richer than I was the last time I posted. Canada money! Sold some stuff at a yard sale over at my folks' house, and I am happy to report I scored three Anita Baker CDs from my sister, who wouldn't take any money for them since we share the same blood and massive love. My mom, on the other hand, forced her money on us for this one item and won't take the money back. I think she's forgotten about the whole blood and love thing.
Hey, people who care about their bodies and who prefer to keep those bodies away from horrible chemicals shouldn't have to be ripped off in the process. One bottle of Aquarella Non-Toxic nail polish costs $18, and that is just asshole. And then they want $5.95 to ship that tiny bottle. Why? Because they can. Because they know Kim Basinger is going to buy three bottles of every colour, once a month. I've seen her plenty o' times at Whole Foods, and you just know that she, being health-oriented, is all over that polish like a fruit bat on a tangerine. Maybe next time I run into her, I'll hit her up for a bottle of "sparkling cider," or whatever colour she happens to have in her organic cotton bag. She seems really sweet. And dewy fresh. I'll offer to push her cart and rummage through the organic produce for her, selecting only the finest specimens. It's all about the barter, cookie.
I'm sleepy and my body hurts. The sky today is stuffed with clouds. I want to take a warm bath and read forever. I want toast with cinnamon and sugar. I want a cup of that tea we're out of at the moment.
The last time I saw you, you were doing what you always did: making everything about yourself. You would steal anyone's thunder without a thought, if it suited you. Someone else's moment in the spotlight becomes yours if you find it is adding to or taking away from you. Your jealousy weighed more than all the water in the sea. I forgot who I was with you; forgot what I liked, what I felt, what I wanted or needed. To me, the memory of you is like a sanguine scar that forever remains raw and tender and unsightly. I am ashamed and try to camouflage it. But there are traces of you here on these pages, because the blood won't stay inside, and now you've come here seeking something—something more—a hundred or so years later.
And I don't wish to be unkind.
Blue and black, black and blue.
Too many bruises. I should not have counted past one; wish I hadn't been there for the option. It would never happen now, I can tell you that. If I could go back to nineteen for a couple of hours, I would spend them kicking your ass.
Your head against the wall. Your back against the cabinet. Your head slammed on the floor. My foot in your ribs. Over and over. Your chest and stomach clawed. Your hair ripped from your head.
Remember? Does that ring any bells, baby?
Sweetie?
Honey?
Lover?
But now you'd like a chat. You know, because you've forgiven yourself, and all. And you want to tell me all about it. And you're not sure that I'll even remember you. I think that was my favourite part; I believe it was the line that made me want to kick you in the mouth.
I see you all those ages ago, assigning mental illness to others—namely me—which belonged to you alone. Perhaps you wanted not to hoard them for yourself. Maybe you needed company. I wasted time and spent mountains of money to prove I wasn't all the things you are, to convince you that we hadn't grown up in the same house.
Did you know I wince involuntarily when I think of the times I was near you? God, what that does to me. Your almost-constant look of discontent. The endless complaints; nothing was ever good enough. How you preyed upon my loneliness, my unguarded kindness. All of your goddamned tears, your pitiful begging. Your anger and how it bled onto everyone, everything. And, oh, that jealousy; your wicked, willful beast. Biting the head off anyone who glanced in my direction. Loving me solely for the way I looked, and hating me for it too.
You never knew me. You never loved me.
As you'll likely see, I have forgotten all about you.
Please understand, I am speaking to the you that was then. You may have changed. I have always hoped you wouldn't repeat the performances on anyone else. But your selfishness remains, as thick and impenetrable as ever.
If the forgiveness you've sought is your own, then that should be enough. Rejoice that you made it that far. You don't need to share it with me. I am working on forgiving myself for everything I let you do to me, everything I wish I could erase. I have said it before on these pages and will say it now: I would erase you, that time I spent with you, if I could. Knowing that, I hope you will respect me and leave me alone to find my own forgiveness.
I will never speak with you again. I do wish you well.
Someone found this site a few moments ago by looking up you can't hurt me, which is just so gorgeous if you put it all in place. But to be accurate, it would need to end with unless I fucking let you.
My delightful friend Paddington sent me a gift this morning:
Knowing I am working on my first CD and that I have struggled for many years with the design concept of the cover art, she lovingly crafted what I believe to be utter brilliance. Inspired by Joyce (and please, if you don't have her album, you're nobody), this masterpiece has a timeless quality about it that is so rarely seen today. As you'll likely notice on Joyce's album cover (below), Paddington used her exquisite sensibilities to loosely base my new CD cover on this treasure from the past.
The photo shoot was amazing, as they tend to be when you've enjoyed one too many Ann-Margrets. A few of us were having a philosophical discussion about the true gender of Socrates, my favourite lesbian, when in wandered an old, disheveled hooker. This woman kept shouting, "Doesn't anyone want to snap my godforsaken photograph?" in her best Bette Davis, so I, being the humanitarian that I am, found my way to the camera and snapped one for her. I think her name was Sipsey. She smelled.
Joyce, the delicious inspiration for all of this, showed up later at the shoot and offered me her eyeglasses for one of the shots, with the idea of adding a hint of mystery. I think the inclusion of the glasses was very effective in that way. Click here to enjoy.
Quote From My World
"That was very confusing, sweetie. I almost had to move out." -ML
Well, I'm off to do a little artwork because I think I forgot to draw smiles on all my conclusions. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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