Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Some times

Its been a really long time since I have written a letter.  I have accepted this apparent failure to keep up with a letter a week and no longer judge myself for it.  To be honest, I faltered in this endeavor because the card I drew after my son's was for one of the Bombs in the deck and I couldn't do it.  I wasn't ready.  I didn't want resolution.  Sometimes the truth is mean and the tenderness of it is too raw to cover up with tact and niceties.  So, instead of just putting it back in and redrawing I stopped.  The whole point was to take the cards as they came and accept fate had a plan.  Well, I decided, eff fate.  I am in charge of my cans of worms and if I wanted to keep a lid on that shit till I was ready I would.  Took a few months to stew and fester further.  Decided that sometimes face to face combat is the only option.  Not everything is sweet tarts and roses.  A letter I would write to accompany this motivation, that will never be sent (but out to the anonymous world) is more like a limerick than a letter.  I am not a poet, I just love rhyme and rhythm:

Confrontation, conflict, avoidance, regression, 
passive nature, repression, passive aggression.  
Let time pass, blow over, fade.  
Just laugh and move forward, anxieties made.  
Whenever I see her I want to ask why she's such a bitch. 
This woman is causing a wound I must itch.  
Familiar by name but not by the soul. 
I think it is time to crawl out of my hole. 
Ask her to speak what she already shows.
Show her I mean it by withholding low blows. 
We may emerge much closer than now, 
but I suspect she will only prove she's a cow.  
Take swings at my character, 
pinch at my pride.  
There is nothing she hasn't already implied. 
So soon we will box, 
a sight it will be, 
though I already know
I will come out of this me.  

Maybe there will be a surprise up her sleeve.
A spark of humanity, 
capacity to bleed.
Perhaps its my head that is causing the scuff.
Maybe she's not actually really that tough.   
Paranoia waters the seeds of my worry.
I better resolve this, 
with stealth and with hurry, 
before it grows to uncontrollable rage.
Let me emerge from this, seasoned sage.