The end of chivalry.

I've done a lot of things.

I've moved away from being queen of a one-horse town.

I've been to England.

I've earned a degree.

I've had my first failed love,

suitably tragic

nastily defining.

The sort of thing that is supposed to make better poetry.

It does not.





I live a very simple life on a low wage

hoping and waiting to become a scholar,

but hoping more simply to save beyond rent.


I pretend that I am more artistic and bohemian than I actually am,

because I occasionally go dancing in the city,

attend author readings,

and haunt museum hallways on discount days.

I attempt recipes from Julia Child.

I attempt to paint the Virgin Mary--over and over again, faceless every time.

I attempt to absorb the smatterings of theory that I buy in dog-eared copy at musty bookstores.

I attempt to listen to my grandmother's records of Carmina Burana and La Traviata.

In the end, it's my mother's Joni Mitchell--"Blue" at least 3 times for good measure.

I plan a lot of themed parties.



I would like very much to stop being unhappy.

I live a nice little life.

I sing in a lovely little church choir.

I sing in a church with lovely stained-glass windows.

There's a lot that's lovely.

I've done a lot of things.



I try to recollect the days of deadlines and ambition

but nothing retains linear shape.


Cycles.

Days.

Months.
Episodes.



Sometimes I can catch a glimpse of my old self.

She runs and hides.


She knows this:

this world is a beautiful one.

Beautiful.

but not safe.


Aesthetics are not a womb.

I know that now.

Rescues will not grow sinews from your ponderings.

And words won't dress as heroes anymore.

Of course you work in a medium of lost faith.

You would, now, wouldn't you?

Always, Gilda, Always

Note to self: stop being a drama queen about personal life.
Say no to drama, yes to peace.
Be zen.
Be epitome of calm.

I did not know I was signing up for this.

Easter Seems Closer and Closer

Fake Spring Break did the trick. I feel like a new person. I am done with the sackloth. My life, however humble, however directionless, however marked by mourning it has been, however random and young, is still beautiful. It's beautiful. And no one can tell me otherwise.

My Fake Spring Break

Sometimes you just can't escape the rhythms of the school year. Even when you're not enrolled anywhere, I guess your body and brain still somehow adhere to the schedule you've been running on since age 5. And so it is that I've ended up with an accidental "Spring Break." I'd planned on a visit home sometime in March, but didn't realize that I'd picked the same exact week as old Alma Mater. At any rate, it's good to get the heck out of dodge. But then I ask myself, what exactly am I taking a break from? Not from homework, not from anything teleological, seeing as my world is now less about definite chronology and much more about repetition. I have plenty of free time-- free time that I longed for when I was in the thick of things this time last year. But knowing me, I can't quite be satisfied. Because now I must give meaning to spare time. And that's not necessarily an easy feat. Free space stresses me out. Autonomy stresses me out. My brain stresses me out. My still everpresent grief stresses me out.
I needed an escape. Not from school. Not from exterior stressors. From interior battles. From constant analysis that never solves things.
You can graduate from school, but you can't graduate from being yourself. You can leave classroom dialogues, but never escape from the ongoing one you have with your self.
So I am home. Because I need a break from ME.