Pop went the weasel…

I don’t feel like it at all. Not right now, not in bit, not yesterday, last week or tomorrow. Writing has always been personal, even when it’s about someone else’s something else. However, I don’t feel personal at all. Or rather, I don’t feel like being personal at all. It’s been a sad, stressful time…and I feel like I would like to bury my sand in some cool, clammy sand, legs blissfully stretched out behind me and a martini that I will drink when I wish to, within reach.

The truth is, I’m one of those people who quite hate being miserable. Its quite simple, when someone or something gives me grief (the special sort of heartburn that only the chosen few can inflict), I just cant get it out of my head. Or heart, system, mealtimes, workplace, dinners, drinks, flights, books. I’m miserable. Period. And you would never guess it. Because I’m also talented. And supremely so, when it comes to covering up. Every performing skill that the greats have ever talked, written or thought about, I have watched myself demonstrate with perfect words, a warm smile and a slightly superior tone. It is an out of body, akin to floating kind of dance that you watch yourself execute, noiselessly, formlessly…If I knew how to do the exact same onstage, this might have been chapter two of a bestselling biography.

So right now I’m stewing. Cooked to perfection in a still simmering sauce of bitterness and resentment, and roasted for luck by malignant misery. Dear one, of years of trust and love has turned out to be the royal rat. And things are not black and white as I would wish and pray. No, things instead are every peachy and ugly and honey and brown, all in the same twisted chuckle of the coughing crystal ballerina. Go figure.

So there’s rage. Names that I cannot stop calling in my head. That are making me a sad, sad, lesser person. A tremendous amount of hurt that I cannot begin to deal with. And a desire to leave these images behind. An image of the beloved past having turned into an ugly, cruel present. Images of the laughter shared, the pure, child like quality of the moments. And now images of something that for me, has truly changed. Foe the first time in my life, I have regret and a feeling that I mistook a bad human being for a good one. Because to be terrible sometimes is human, to be devious, is an altogether different proposition. And when you meet that apple in your basket, the idea is to run Lola run.

I do know things are never quite so simple. And that everyone has some good. But I’m genuinely not interested anymore. I’m tired of looking for beauty where there was none. I’m tired of a bicep flexing reflection being a stronger memory than a conversation. And if someone else finds the needle, good luck to them and their roll in the hay.

I’m glad I wrote because I have deadlines for certain other writings that this might just help begin and people who may not feel indulgent of my martinis, cubist scribbles or sand. The past needs to be left behind rightfully. It really is time to change the music and get on with it.