Take Another Look











{January 30, 2010}   Pyscho = the first six letters of psychologist

I feed my goldfish every day, but lately he’s been a bit down on me. Martin, I say to the fish, I know all the talk we’ve had has been about me, but when you turn into a human being, which should be soon, but not too soon, because I don’t want you to go and die on me, we’re going to talk all about you.

Likely, Martin thinks. I’m not going to play along anymore. I won’t wag my tail when you talk anymore. Now you won’t have anybody for company! It’s going to make you better. After all, the only way somebody gets better is by abandoning them the way I’ve been abandoned!

Martin, I say, don’t be that way. You make all these assumptions because I come over here to the fish tank and tell you these dreary stories that you inquire about. If you want to talk about yourself, I would be all ears, but you seem to have forgotten mentioning yourself and have re-routed all memories so that they are all about me. And I’m tired of hearing my life put into your cliche’s. Now please pretend to have some dignity and step out behind the fish tank?
He steps out, in his muddy parka. He’s dripping wet. He talks in tongues. It is no use. I can’t hear him anymore. His poetry talk has gone to far. He is gone. Like J was gone with the science. They think it’s only real when they are so reimbursed in it that they can’t see anything but what they produce. There is also the appreciation of beauty. And he talks in circles, telling me he looks forward to talking to me when I am no longer the “pining” girl, but when I have moved on. By that time it will be too late, and I won’t want to talk to him. See, I seem to treasure unconditional loyalty above all else. It’s sort of a flaw in my character, you might say. Not “when I feel like it” loyalty.

You were wrong, I say. I can live with that. But can’t you stop talking for one minute to realize that the only thing I’ve said in our conversations lately has been to actualize something. But no, no mention of our music project. The seaweed. All tied up in you. I have good days, I have bad days. Sometimes people, especially poets, are good at casting off nets with all of their knots and they catch somebody who thinks, oh yes, they just described my web of problems. But it wasn’t. It was just a net.

He’s wrong, and I’m sick of people being wrong. I just wanted to hang out with somebody. In silence, whatever they want. Looks like he hasn’t realize that I pretty much will acquiesce to anybody who makes an order clear. Except his order. They are all the same, really.. they only want me on their terms.. Martin only wants to talk to me when I stop talking about things he doesn’t like, and other people only want me when I stop doing things they don’t like… for instance, one guy would like it if I dressed differently, another if I never wrote things down, another if I conformed to society, and another likes me the way I am…. but only on Wednesdays.

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