The Patron Saint of Not Giving a Shit[/caption]I guess I just must be a daredevil / I don't feel anything until I smash it up / I'm caught on the cold, caught on the hot / Not so with the warmer lot / And all I want is a confidant / To help me laugh it off / And don't let me ruin me / I may need a chaperone
I. Conversations With My Husbands
I write amazing blog posts in my head, but this last month has been brutal enough to have my hands go still over the keyboard. I keep writing in my head though. Writing and forgetting. Writing and forgetting. Jow and I go around and around about How to Prepare for The Future like the least sexy most neurotic version of Ouroboros possible. Not how I planned to spend our first month of marriage but when has that ever mattered? In the background: a new schedule, older children, exhaustion, less free time, worries about [family member x], fretting about [social circle member z], a complete inability to feel like I'm getting anywhere with anything, tiny progresses amounting to nothing.
I spill this all out to Gordon in a fit of anxiety and exhaustion. What do I do? I don't know what to do. I'm a hot mess in a dress.
Gordon listens impassively as he does and then says, Just keep doing everything.
He pauses a polite amount of time for me to try to strangle him through my monitor using my heretoforth undeveloped Jedi mind powers and then says, I'm sorry, darling. It's all you can do.
I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes/-And-/ I certainly haven't been spreading myself around/ I still only travel by foot and by foot, it's a slow climb,/But I'm good at being uncomfortable, so/I can't stop changing all the time/ If there was a better way to go then it would find me/ I can't help it, the road just rolls out behind me/ Be kind to me, or treat me mean/ I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine
II. Falling
So be it, I'm your crowbar / If that's what I am so far / Until you get out of this mess And I will pretend / That I don't know of your sins / Until you are ready to confess But all the time, all the time / I'll know, I'll know / And you can use my skin / To bury secrets in /And I will settle you down. . .
III. An Open Letter of Malice to my Muse
But my big secret /Gonna hover over your life/ Gonna keep you reaching / When I'm gone like yesterday / When I'm high like heaven / When I'm strong like music /'cause I'm slow like honey, and /Heavy with mood. . .
IV. The Patron Saint of Not Giving a Shit Gives a Concert
Wouldn't it be weird if we were living the life we wanted to be living? How weird would that be . . .
We started out sipping the water/ And now we try to swallow the wave/ And we try not to let those bastards get us down/ We don't worry anymore cause we know when the guff comes we get brave/ After all, look around/ It's happening, it's happening, it's happening now
V. Nothing Scares Me Anymore