batshit weird

i've been so terribly busy.  life is complicated, y'all.  some complications are good, some are not so good, while the rest are probably neutral.  anyways......... i had one of those gawd-awful Adrienne Rich Love Poem moments yesterday while reading excerpts from Lyn Hejinian's "The Fatalist" and coming upon the line: "Apples fall heavily to the ground and lie in the sun, their scent abandoning them as a philosophy which cannot be further perfected. Love releases playful sensations even from serious things providing a life to think about...." of course, i read this nonsense and am delighted; immediately i turn to share this find with someone (someHIM) and share it to an emptiness. these stupid moments are the primary downside to my current "la vie sans amour". never terrified of being alone but hating and dreading those moments where i do feel lonely. *sigh* fortunately, these moments are transitory and need only be marked with a sigh and an "awww, this kinda sucks." the holiday season does bring out a certain grimness in me since the season culminates with the anniversary of #2's death. everyone seems to gad about wrapped in frothy lovey feelings and the like and a hint of bitterness creeps in.....it's hard not to remember that i've never heard the words "i love you" without qualification. always, "i love you, but...." i consider myself very blessed to not have the constitutional qualities for maintaining the whole maudlin -and- bitter shtick for more than a short while. i'm too busy and there are things to get done. pissing and moaning don't seem to get much accomplished. i do try to be certain that my self-forgiveness isn't what the theologian Dietrich Bonhoffer called "cheap grace." of course, i recover myself after my moment with the lines of the above-mentioned poem and forge ahead then i come across a line in Tony Hoagland's "In a Quiet Town:" "...skin was the holiest testament of all and that to remove the clothes of a sexualized stranger was like filling your lungs with oxygen before diving into the swimming pool of god." and i turn my head , again, to say "hey, read this...." and i'll just claim that it was to the cat i spoke and not admit that i'm perhaps just a bit daft. i think i should meter my exposure to poetry (did i just make a pun?) very carefully.....and poets like Rilke and Monette are to be handled like dangerously volatile chemicals. i think it is sometimes for the best that i am not partnered to someone.....the invitation to become intimate with the strangeness of my interiority (my idiosyncracies, not my butt!!) is surely the infliction of a cruelty and probably a sin. honestly, i think i'm as weird as bat-shit!