she had dyed blonde hair with natural white highlights, glasses and a maroon sweater. her voice was calming and she spoke, mildly affected with a southern accent. she told her story.
she said there were always "others" in his life, even after they married. he thought that was all women were good for, sleeping with. so they divorced when she was 46 and he moved out, of the state. she had heard he remarried someone from back home but that didn't last more than 10 years. she knew this because she would see his brother and sister-in-law around town. they rarely spoke. and while he had moved away, remarried and divorced again, she'd had offers she continually turned down. for her, there was no one else. "i remember one day" she said, "watching a movie on tv. i don't remember the name of it; i never have. but the story in the movie was about my life. he cheated on her and they split up. but she forgave him." and that's when she knew, i suppose, that she had to forgive her husband. 20 years after the divorce, she found his number through a family member. "i called him, and when i finally told him who it was, there was just silence." she paused, for effect. "he told me he didn't think i'd ever speak to him again. and that's when i told him i called to say i wasn't holding a grudge." and they talked, and caught up, and eventually she moved up to where he lived, and she's 71 now but they've been remarried for three years. it's quite beautiful actually.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
frustré
many things are simultaneously frustrating me.
apparently, the french language interprets the word frustration as frustration. it's not even different.
also, i might be going crazy. i gave up writing for lent and sometimes it was forgettable but most days thoughts would inhabit my mind's eye (see: josh ritter) like fireflys in a field. the near inexpressible frustration (i say near because i wouldn't even bother talking about it if it truly was inexpressible) at not being able to write down lines or paragraphs or cliches or truths pales in comparison to now having the freedom to write but no subject with which to begin.
maybe i haven't learned my lesson.
maybe i will fast again.
maybe, i will become a renowned writer by rumour only, and never actually publish anything of importance but be known as that person who is constantly fasting from writing because she is actually too brilliant to pen even a single word. people will search libraries and bookstores for any paper with my name as author. and the only piece of prose they will find will be about a prism in a lamp store with no hope of its potential until one day it is placed exactly where it was intended and sees through the reflection of the sun a rainbow, which, it finally realizes, is the very essence of its potential. they will find this, of course, and see my name at the bottom, next to audrey brooks (see: my grandmother) but they will not believe it is really my writing. in fact, they will swear it cannot be my work. and they will never know the effort my grandmother put into publishing a story from her granddaughter's college writing class.
i hope i can be even slightly that elusive someday.
frustration #3. when anyone says fustration instead of frustration. high school history is all i have to say about that.
finally, i miss my brothers. that is frustrating me a lot right now.
goodnight.
apparently, the french language interprets the word frustration as frustration. it's not even different.
also, i might be going crazy. i gave up writing for lent and sometimes it was forgettable but most days thoughts would inhabit my mind's eye (see: josh ritter) like fireflys in a field. the near inexpressible frustration (i say near because i wouldn't even bother talking about it if it truly was inexpressible) at not being able to write down lines or paragraphs or cliches or truths pales in comparison to now having the freedom to write but no subject with which to begin.
maybe i haven't learned my lesson.
maybe i will fast again.
maybe, i will become a renowned writer by rumour only, and never actually publish anything of importance but be known as that person who is constantly fasting from writing because she is actually too brilliant to pen even a single word. people will search libraries and bookstores for any paper with my name as author. and the only piece of prose they will find will be about a prism in a lamp store with no hope of its potential until one day it is placed exactly where it was intended and sees through the reflection of the sun a rainbow, which, it finally realizes, is the very essence of its potential. they will find this, of course, and see my name at the bottom, next to audrey brooks (see: my grandmother) but they will not believe it is really my writing. in fact, they will swear it cannot be my work. and they will never know the effort my grandmother put into publishing a story from her granddaughter's college writing class.
i hope i can be even slightly that elusive someday.
frustration #3. when anyone says fustration instead of frustration. high school history is all i have to say about that.
finally, i miss my brothers. that is frustrating me a lot right now.
goodnight.
Monday, March 24, 2008
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