I am not supposed to be writing. I am supposed to be moisturizing me face and playing makeup for a family dinner to celebrate my partner’s last day at work. i am not supposed to be reading Murakami or listening to Chopin & Liszt. i am supposed to be turning the lights on in the house, feeding our little dogs, being careful and correct. i am not supposed to be writing again, with some maniacs urge that dwells silent for months, then frantically rushes to my mind, unable to be contained. But i am not doing anything to make it better. i am doing what I have to do. i have always tried to blame myself for doing what i was not supposed to do. i lost whole lives, whole relationships over this kind of thing. Lost years and babies and travels to new places, writing in an old second hand chair, because I have to. because i must.
I twiddle my ring finger and smile, because i know i am loved. I love him, too. My partner brought me a gift yesterday. a coffee tumbler with a little owlet in a snow hat, one of those ear-flap hats, the illustration reminds me of a children’s book cover. the title could be the little winter owl, the snowy day, owlet takes off, the owl that couldn’t stop rushing her writing because she had to. The owlet that is loved by John.
i am not supposed to be typing. i am supposed to be putting on lipstick. i should have perfume on by now.
The dogs know when we are leaving by the scent of my perfume in the air. they get excited and start moaning and whimpering because they think it’s car riding time. It’s not. It’s a simple diner, john’s choice, maybe taxi, maybe indian, probably mexican food. I text John:
What do you want for dinner out tonight?
He replies…
I want
You
your skin
on my
Skin
Sometimes i feel breathless. I am older than breathless. flushed maybe. A hopeful sigh, more like. I have aged into the category of “will my hormones cooperate?” sex. It’s not Velvet underground sex. it’s chopin sex, and i am trying not to berate myself with the musts in this category. I must write. i must have hot, passionate sex. I must eat healthy food. I must feed the dogs. must give feminist advice to my daughter with a broken heart. i must quote anne sexton and margaret atwood. i must apply lipstick, staining my 45 year old lips with the crimson of the 90s riot grrl i once was. Still am. Must be. all the obligatory categories carefully crafted into a well-balanced, cohesive narrative. a brand. fuck that.
i am writing while the bird clock whistles. The yellow finch. 6pm and i am full of supposed to dos and failures, despite the fact that i am writing again. something private just for me. you might read it, there is a you out there, for whatever reason, i count on that to keep me going or else i think i’d probably just throw in the old towel.
there is a you. so many. a woman in a college classroom teaching young women about feminism in literature. There is a you in a bookshop where it snows and the walks are long and white. a you in California where the kitchen smells like comfort food. A you in atlanta that is a doctor who is also my half sister, whom i have never met. a you who is a radio dj who is the reason i was able to escape 18 years ago. a you that is the rich guy who wouldn’t know how to react to anything brilliant because his head’s up his ass. A you that is an ex. a you that is an alcoholic. a you that is still trapped. a you that has a cage for a heart and can’t cum because it’s too depressing. a you that is a drag queen. a you that makes small gifts for friends who stays quiet. a you who has a house full of kids who never dared to write again.
and there is a me.
a me who is not supposed to, but must.
When John gets home and is in the shower, i might stop writing, just to go see his skin, his chest hair, the little black circles of fur around his nipples. his long hair wet and soggy like an afghan hound in the rain. his hips, just in the right light, make me grin devilishly and i still feel in awe of the other things. I am not supposed to be writing.
This Murakami novel is not bad. Now, i am not even doing that. The classical piano in the background,a warring faux fireplace, a dog snore, a dog sigh, a little happy home full of sounds and life and musts. I have an inexorable urge to write these things down, lest i lose my mind or memory or both. I have done both already, many times.
today is ordinary. except i had a feminist art urge to show someone my bloody maxi pad. I talked about periods with a friend i ran into at walgreen’s. i painted my nails red. this shade of red is called “berry” but the last one was called “daddy’s girl.” but fuck that.
i am not Velvet Underground sex. i am a slow, sunday morning drive that crescendos into hills and valleys in autumn. A familiar season. A haunting cold, followed by the flushed cheeks of a once-been Lolita. I am a fund and full, healthy mother, full os sex in everything I do. A lazy & phone-it-in sometimes partner, sometimes hot. Not usually. I have to stop debating what my sexuality is supposed to feel and look and smell like at my age. i don’t know. It’s ripe. It’s maybe a little over ripe. does this matter to the man who wants to come home and feel my skin on his skin for dinner?
not really.
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