How I feel about that one
Strange how I feel about that one. L. Could it be one. Such idolatry there, such deep and abiding awesomeness I sense in her, or at least the ghost of awesomeness — on some fundamental level I feel unworthy — whether in wisdom, tongue, or song — she is cooler than me, and I have always been enamored with cool — and looking at dopey pictures of her with her sweet & dopey boyfriend — looking at unpretty pictures of her in the morning or bundled up — and his simple ragged beard —
What elitist craziness that sees in her the epitome & thinking mine own self my own epitome seeks a Nietzchean uberpartner — they call it loving the idea of her — all the wrong things —
Went wrong there somewhere. Reaching. Pedestaling. Walter Berglund idolizing. No one wants to be an idol. We are blood, and piss, and shit, and tears, and fatness, and a host of imperfections — and me and mine Romantic Eye gilding ordinary women with the sterile Perfection — who wishes to live like that forever —
Not like N.S., whom I love with all of her imperfections, not idolized, but loved — love anyway, love when she’s beautiful, love when she’s not, in sickness, in health, in good times, in bad times —
And yet there’s nothing there too.
Others. But not there yet. So long since I’ve — hmm and hmm. Again.