L’amour physique est sans issue, Je vais, je vais et je viens, Entre tes reins, Je vais et je viens, Et je me retiens, Non! Maintenant viens!
The song is on my iTunes rotation on my iPhone. I put it there a long time ago. However, when it blared through my earbuds, at 6:30am in the morning, on my way to work, it got my attention. I was on my bike, and so as not to become roadkill on the path, like how so many New York City rodents had met their maker, I was unable to reach my phone and hit fast forward.
I did not especially want to hear the song; not because it’s a bad song, it’s not. It’s romantic, and sex-errific. I didn’t want to hear it because it was our song, one of them anyway. And although there hasn’t been an our for nearly two years— whoa, where did that time go, it was too much to hear before sunup.
Time. The healer. The answer to most questions, problems and teenage acne. While time has passed, and people have moved on, (some actually on to people), a part of me seems to be frozen in time, and I have not, “Let it go.” Please don’t start singing that song, it give me hives.
In a certain, sort of essential way, I’m still in a pseudo- ish- relationship with my ex. Before you judge, or think me pathetic; first of all, do not judge lest ye, or she, be judged, and second, I have a good excuse.
I’m writing a book, The Girlfriend Mom— How I Got Sucked into a Life with Children, And How I Learned to Love Every Sucky Part. (working title) It’s a real hoot and a holler, (at least I hope it will be) except when I have to relive the past, which is pretty much the whole time, since it takes place in the past. The point is, I’ve had to live in that world while I write, and it has not always been funsy and neat.
It’s still emotional, and there are connections, but what I’m not entirely sure about is why. Maybe it’s because I am straddling the two worlds; one where everyone, and everything, (relationships, clothes, cars), have remained the same, and one where every goddamn thing has changed, including, but not limited to, bedfellows, friends, family and footwear. Is the connected feeling because there’s still a connection?
To say that I’ve been a bit schizo during this process, would not be saying enough, nor would it paint the entire picture. I have had more imaginary conversations than an actual schizophrenic. No offense to the schizophrenics in the crowd. Perhaps this is the plight of the creative. Perhaps when I type, The End, the voices and the dialogue will stop, and I’ll be able to buy a new pair of jeans.
Only that lady of the night, Time, will tell.