Friday, November 11, 2011

eleven eleven

A little raw this morning. I watched the football game last night with friends at a bar down the street from where I live and I had three beers and a shot of bourbon and ouuuuch. I haven't been drinking anything but wine and beer lately. And I didn't eat last night so all around bad news. I'm a little bummed at myself, I wanted to get up and write today but the hammers in my head won't let me.

Listening to 11:11 by Rufus Wainwright on repeat this morning, his voice and this song open me up a little where I've been closing up. Today I imagine grief as a body of water, most of me has come out of it but my feet are still wet. I don't notice most of the times but then I do and yeah, fucking grief.

Having a song on repeat reminds me of something I witnessed and was a part of a couple of months ago. Love and I were at the end of things, tensions were high and we were both emotionally exhausted. We went to get a slice of pizza at a local spot, next door to a flower shop. The flower shop is one I've bought flowers from for years, run by really nice Mexican guys. Love and I were sitting outside eating pizza and I noticed whoever was working at the flower shop had the same song no repeat, Paloma Negra, an absolutely heartbreaking song about the singer trying to get over a broken heart. I tried to explain the lyrics to Love but couldn't translate them correctly, they were hitting a little too close to home and I couldn't even eat my pizza. When we got up to leave I dipped my head into the flower shop to say hello to whoever was working and I saw the man inside was crying his eyes out in silence. He saw me and was embarrassed, I was embarrassed that I had walked in on such an emotionally raw moment for him. We stammered through fake pleasantries and then I rejoined Love and we went home, our own grief making our attempts at conversation awkward and obtuse. I thought about that poor man crying in the flower shop all night. How no matter how we are wounded in love and life we always go back for more.

Oh hangover philosophy, thou art a bastard. I have high hopes for writing this weekend. My novel is dragging at some points but the point is that I am on point in writing. I like my main character a lot, she has so much to learn, most of all to trust herself. I'm teaching her that as I am learning it for myself.

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