abandonment. years. i own them, and feel them and still, still, i'm not embracing myself. my husband is my bandage. my house is my newest tourniquet. but i'm still bleeding. and the wound is festering. and every now and then, like last night's full red moon, i recognize that i'm still four years old, in a fetal position, crying like i would never stop crying .. needing to feel that god fierce resiliancy in me, that credo that says i'm here and i'm alright and i belong. no one can do this for me. all the pain, the frustration, the boiling rage . .no one can heal me but me.
i phoned xavier last night and we comforted each other, as we have for almost a decade. we reminded each other about the wisdom of the universe and how we have to take responsibility for everything that happens. learn the lesson, devour the illusion. we left somewhat placated, but hungry. we're both seeking an inner resolve. a commitment of self. a change of action. that decisive moment, carried out. i can't keep swallowing myself, swallowing bitterness, swallowing hopelessness and mediocrity. there is a little nerve that has been twitching near the front of my left eye. this little spasm near my forehead, misfired electric currents that jab me . .out of control, aimless baby sparks that keep getting lost . .lost.
back from vegas. i lost at all my favorite slot machines: monopoly, wheel of fortune, even wild cherry. but i'd give anything to still linger at the bellagio's chihuly garden, with its clove and cinnamon twig bridge, glass oak leaves suspended over ornate fountains and pools of steam, red and orange azaleas next to the mosaic tiled paths that lead to marble staircases. . .i miss the italian cafe in the flamingo and my plate of butternut squash tortelllis, i miss the rollercoaster wrapped around the stratosphere, and the view of the faux eiffel tower from the room at the monte carlo, i miss wandering through the shopping malls at the aladdin and caeser's palace. i miss the mango sorbet at lenoir. i miss the water show and andrea bocelli playing down the tree-lined passage, the bare breasted showgirls with their glittering headresses, the cool breeze at poolside, the imitation village next to the new york new york casino. go back there? in a heartbeat. glad to be home? oh yeah.
