anticipation
B said I should write in my blog. Actually, a lot of people have said this, so I don’t know why it makes any difference that she mentioned this today, but she’ll be flattered to know that I’m writing an entry simply because she said I should write in my blog instead of doing work.
She actually specifically said I should write about my new love, polo, and how polo busted my knee for the second time and has prevented me from playing hockey for the past two weeks. Ok, not really, she actually wanted me to tell my polo story about the crazy rich people and their various affectations, affinities, and disorders. Yes, these rich people are crazy, but so am I, so I am not sure if money has anything to do with this, or just the natural inclination some of us have to invent really hairbrained schemes and then try to make good on them. If Superstar and I have anything in common besides hockey, it must be this, which is probably much more in common than we actually realize.
I am currently sitting here with one black sock on and one off, and my nails recently painted “Opal Truth.” The truth is that the rainbow nail polish I bought sucks, and I am returning it to Walgreens tomorrow and demanding my money back or an exchange for Ruby Red. That is, after all, what I imagine the Wicked Witch of the West wears, so as to yield high contrast to her emerald skin.
In high contrast this month to afflictive months gone by, I am going to Montreal over the weekend, to make love to a Canadian and otherwise be completely and utterly confused as to where we stand in the grand scheme of life, but what would life be without confusion, just a long conversation that starts with “Why” and ends with “I don’t know” and in between makes some references to novels read and movies watched.
A relationship then, is just a very long conversation, with moments of silence here and there, and knowing smiles, and sometimes a joke and sometimes a complaint, but overall just the constant stream of talk that shouts during the day and whispers in the night across satin sheets and sometimes says things that no one else gets to hear.
I am so confused. But only in that fanciful cotton candy kind of confusion, where the clingy pink and blue tufts spin around the cardboard cone and sometimes escape upwards, only to turn into a sugary vapor somewhere above the carnival. It’s that kind of confusion. Pink and blue and sweet and altogether ethereal.
