sweetbriarpoet
Flower Fortune- Sweetbriar: Poetry and fragrance.
Thirty-Eigth Entry
death Thoughts from the underbelly of society,
the lower bottom of mass murders committed without a batted eyelash.
With a light sweep, he clears the evidence away and only leaves the
silent pulsing of a heaving destiny behind.
Notes from my class with Edward yesterday:
I got the worst sort of deal coming to this class. You'd think this would be an exchange--> give and take, some sort of gift for gift, death for a kinsman's death. Am I doomed to be stuck here forever? In the learning process, though I am a grown adult with more experience than half the morons 'professoring' me? A student laughs in front, sighs at Edward, thinking she is learning for 'learning's' sake. But even though I am such a fancy, I am not so fanciful as that. Put forth to me reality--the reality that when I look at Edward, my heart pulses, and I am caught by something much more than his intelligence. Do I need him? Perhaps I do. It will be my downfall.
He had not smiled at me at that moment like I thought he would.
The Monday after the birthday party, while my parents-in-law were still in town, I went to his class feeling a bit uplifted. I had finally stopped worrying about the children so much, stopped worrying that Harry had forgotten that I existed, stopped worrying that Rev would never leave me be with my thoughts. I kept trying to catch Edward's eye throughout his lecture, looking for the one point in his pupil that captured all of his wisdom and passion. Only once did I get him to stare straight at me, and his dimpled, knowing half-smile sent a shudder through me. "And, Paige," he said in front of the class, "do you think history and politics corrupt true literature? Or can literature only be true when they are set in a historically and politically sound background?" I smiled back. "I think," I said. "That we have nothing but chance. And fate. If a work is politically and historically correct and representative at the perfect time, then that is true literature." He nodded. "You and chance, Paige. I've only believed in fate one time, and it lead me to pure misery." But there was still a smile upon his face, and I knew he was talking about me.
After class, I showed him my notes and he laughed, taking my wrist, kissing it. We are on such opposite sides of logic, he said, but I can't get enough of your imagination. I laughed too, but he let go of my wrist and cocked his head, staring at me. He sat on his desk, his arms behind him, his neck sinking slightly into his shoulders. Did you know that I wrote something for you? he asked me. Did you? I suddenly became passionate and went to him, resting my head in the crook of his neck. He sat up and wrapped his arms around me. Come with me to the apartment, he said, and we left, me ducking along after him like a naughty teenager.
We are in love, I kept repeating in my head over and over again as the car shifted from gear to gear and we sped to his apartment. We are in love, but I am in love once too many times. My hands shook on the armrest, and Edward saw. He rested his hand on mine and I felt calmer. He doesn't like it, Paige, he said. But what can he do when he loves you as much as you love him? He understands you, and won't stop you from being happy. Don't be afraid. He will never leave you. Edward had said it so matter-of-factly that it stung my heart. No, I answered, but don't I have a right to be ashamed? Are you ashamed? he asked me. Not yet, I said, feeling the blood flush to my cheeks. But I'm waiting for it.
Edward hands me a small piece of notebook paper which reads:
(Party Date) Paige/Harry w/ Louise Conversation
*Hands me the spatula for burgers. Her hands are small and smooth. Tough as nails, she is.*
Louise: I hope you don't mind me being so frank right when I've first met you. *Turns stately head around, obviously trying to make sure Harry and Paige are not near.*
Muse (A name Edward calls himself when he is writing autobiographically. I find it quaint and cliched, which is why I suppose he used it here.): Of course not, Mrs. --" My voice was less than surprised. I was less than surprised. Her eyes share cold/warmth.
Louise: Harry might be my son, but Paige is also my daughter. I want her to be happy. *Purses lips and straightens shirt* I see her face when she looks at you."
Muse: "Mrs. --"
Louise: "I am not finished. *Not siad meanly, but motherly.* Do not do anything to hurt her. Do not treat her like a mistress. She and my son may have an understanding, but they know each other better than you ever will understand. You will reach for her, and find yourself falling into a bottomless well. *Hands me back the spatula* And those children, do not forget, are never going to be yours. *She smiles, pats my hand* Good luck with her." *Exits*
Is this a new play about my family? I ask, laughing. Edward's lips search for mine desperately. He pulls away, his eyes flashing, his smile tickling his mouth. This, he answers, taking it back, is the actual conversation I had with your mother-in-law, over burgers at your twin sons' sixth birthday party. My smile turns into a frown. With exaggerations? I plead. I'm afraid not, Edward says, laughing again. We make love and I think about my mother in law saying those children will never be yours. He knows this, but why can I not make it leave my mind? Edward says he never wanted children, but he looks at Harry so enviously.
Edward may have me when he likes, but Harry has me through those children.
Stamp your feet to a 70s beat in your dreams,
but thewalk-in closet has those loose floorboards that stub your toes
and remind you of mothballs for the rest of your life.
the lower bottom of mass murders committed without a batted eyelash.
With a light sweep, he clears the evidence away and only leaves the
silent pulsing of a heaving destiny behind.
Notes from my class with Edward yesterday:
I got the worst sort of deal coming to this class. You'd think this would be an exchange--> give and take, some sort of gift for gift, death for a kinsman's death. Am I doomed to be stuck here forever? In the learning process, though I am a grown adult with more experience than half the morons 'professoring' me? A student laughs in front, sighs at Edward, thinking she is learning for 'learning's' sake. But even though I am such a fancy, I am not so fanciful as that. Put forth to me reality--the reality that when I look at Edward, my heart pulses, and I am caught by something much more than his intelligence. Do I need him? Perhaps I do. It will be my downfall.
He had not smiled at me at that moment like I thought he would.
The Monday after the birthday party, while my parents-in-law were still in town, I went to his class feeling a bit uplifted. I had finally stopped worrying about the children so much, stopped worrying that Harry had forgotten that I existed, stopped worrying that Rev would never leave me be with my thoughts. I kept trying to catch Edward's eye throughout his lecture, looking for the one point in his pupil that captured all of his wisdom and passion. Only once did I get him to stare straight at me, and his dimpled, knowing half-smile sent a shudder through me. "And, Paige," he said in front of the class, "do you think history and politics corrupt true literature? Or can literature only be true when they are set in a historically and politically sound background?" I smiled back. "I think," I said. "That we have nothing but chance. And fate. If a work is politically and historically correct and representative at the perfect time, then that is true literature." He nodded. "You and chance, Paige. I've only believed in fate one time, and it lead me to pure misery." But there was still a smile upon his face, and I knew he was talking about me.
After class, I showed him my notes and he laughed, taking my wrist, kissing it. We are on such opposite sides of logic, he said, but I can't get enough of your imagination. I laughed too, but he let go of my wrist and cocked his head, staring at me. He sat on his desk, his arms behind him, his neck sinking slightly into his shoulders. Did you know that I wrote something for you? he asked me. Did you? I suddenly became passionate and went to him, resting my head in the crook of his neck. He sat up and wrapped his arms around me. Come with me to the apartment, he said, and we left, me ducking along after him like a naughty teenager.
We are in love, I kept repeating in my head over and over again as the car shifted from gear to gear and we sped to his apartment. We are in love, but I am in love once too many times. My hands shook on the armrest, and Edward saw. He rested his hand on mine and I felt calmer. He doesn't like it, Paige, he said. But what can he do when he loves you as much as you love him? He understands you, and won't stop you from being happy. Don't be afraid. He will never leave you. Edward had said it so matter-of-factly that it stung my heart. No, I answered, but don't I have a right to be ashamed? Are you ashamed? he asked me. Not yet, I said, feeling the blood flush to my cheeks. But I'm waiting for it.
Edward hands me a small piece of notebook paper which reads:
(Party Date) Paige/Harry w/ Louise Conversation
*Hands me the spatula for burgers. Her hands are small and smooth. Tough as nails, she is.*
Louise: I hope you don't mind me being so frank right when I've first met you. *Turns stately head around, obviously trying to make sure Harry and Paige are not near.*
Muse (A name Edward calls himself when he is writing autobiographically. I find it quaint and cliched, which is why I suppose he used it here.): Of course not, Mrs. --" My voice was less than surprised. I was less than surprised. Her eyes share cold/warmth.
Louise: Harry might be my son, but Paige is also my daughter. I want her to be happy. *Purses lips and straightens shirt* I see her face when she looks at you."
Muse: "Mrs. --"
Louise: "I am not finished. *Not siad meanly, but motherly.* Do not do anything to hurt her. Do not treat her like a mistress. She and my son may have an understanding, but they know each other better than you ever will understand. You will reach for her, and find yourself falling into a bottomless well. *Hands me back the spatula* And those children, do not forget, are never going to be yours. *She smiles, pats my hand* Good luck with her." *Exits*
Is this a new play about my family? I ask, laughing. Edward's lips search for mine desperately. He pulls away, his eyes flashing, his smile tickling his mouth. This, he answers, taking it back, is the actual conversation I had with your mother-in-law, over burgers at your twin sons' sixth birthday party. My smile turns into a frown. With exaggerations? I plead. I'm afraid not, Edward says, laughing again. We make love and I think about my mother in law saying those children will never be yours. He knows this, but why can I not make it leave my mind? Edward says he never wanted children, but he looks at Harry so enviously.
Edward may have me when he likes, but Harry has me through those children.
Stamp your feet to a 70s beat in your dreams,
but thewalk-in closet has those loose floorboards that stub your toes
and remind you of mothballs for the rest of your life.
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