Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Fig Balsamic

Fig Balsamic

(This was sent in by a woman from Oregon. She asked me to withhold her name, but she sent me an email about the terror in her life now.)

I forgot to eat tonight. I just made a salad with goat cheese and walnuts, and then poured myself a glass of wine. It was from a bottle that had been rattling around the back of my car since I took it to the beach and forgot to open it. (How rude that was.) I drink too seldom lately, a half a glass and my skin is warm.

I exercised twice today. Movement is comforting.

There is gossip again. Who can blame them? Their days are empty. The trick is a preemptive and well-placed story. I am surprised how easy this game is to play. And of course we all know it doesn't matter. But I am not unkind, so they want to believe the best. I am fortunate to be liked, I have seen women reduced to tears in preschool halls, their children left out of parties for nothing more than neglecting to return a phone call. I wasn't meant for this life, it itches my neck and wrists like a woolen sweater.

I want to go fast, to fly down a hill of snow, skiing, my eyes watering from the wind. Or perhaps I can find speed on a cycle or a car with no top and a long desperate ribbon of road. I crave so many sensations lately.

I paint but never keep my paintings.

What would I do if I were not afraid?

I will not be afraid of what comes next.

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