There is nothing…that can be said…that can frighten me…anymore…Sadden me…perhaps…disgust me…certainly…but not make me afraid…It has been said…Learn What You Fear…Then Make Love To It…dance with it…put it on your dresser…and kiss it good…night…Say it…over and over…until in the darkest hour…from the deepest sleep…you can be awakened…to say Yes…
She never learned…no matter how often people tried…that it was hers…the fear and the Life…the glory of the gamble…It was her quarter…she had to pick the machine…She never understood…simple duty…knowing only to give all of herself…or none…There was no balance…to her triangle…though three points…are the strongest mathematical figures…no tingle…when struck…no joy…in her song…no comfort in her chair…war/always war…with whom she was…who she wanted to be…and what they wanted…of her…
One reason I think…I am qualified…to run the world…though my appointment is not imminent…is when I get…what I want…I am happy…It is surprising to me…how few people are…When they win…like Richard Nixon or John McEnroe…they are unhappy…when they lose…impossible…One reason I think…I have neither ulcers nor nail biting habits…is I know to be careful…of what I want…I just may get it…
She was never taught…that everything is earned…that Newton was right…for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction…Interest is obtained…only on Savings…Personality is developed…only on risk…What is sought…must first be given…We please others…by only allowing them access…to that part of ourselves which is public…If familiarity breeds contempt…use breeds hatred…
Turtles…the kind you find in pet stores…the kind Darwin met on Galápagos…grow to fit the environment…There are…probably…some genetic limits…but a small turtle…in a small bowl…will not outgrow…her home…Flowers…will rise…proportionate more to the size…of the pot…than the relationship of sun…to rain…Humans seldom deviate…If she hadn’t been a small town girl…with a mind and heart molded absolutely…to fit the environment…she might have developed…a real skill…a real desire…to discover herself…and her gifts…As it was…as it is…she simply got used…and used to using…
She was never a loner…never made…to understand that life…in fact…is a solitary journey…that only one…was going to St. Ives…that no one held her bag…while the old woman traveled to Skookum…that the Little Red Hen and the Engine That Could…did it themselves…She was…let’s face it…the leader of the pack…the top of the heap…cheerleader extraordinaire…She was very popular…sought after by all the right people…for her jokes…her parties…her parents’ car…The telephone was invented…just for her…She set up the friendships…the going steadys…the class officers…yearbook staff…Who’s-In-Who’s-Out…through the witch wire…Nothing could happen…without her input…She actually thought…it was important…who went with whom…to the junior prom…But somebody had to pick up the fallen streamers…sweep the now scarred dance floor…turn out the lights before they could go home…
We were born…in the same year…our mothers delivered…by the same doctor…of the same city…in the same hospital…We were little chubby girls in pink…passing cigarettes at the lawn parties…My mother made me play…with her…and hers…with me…We didn’t really mind…we shared the same friends…hers…and the same ideas…mine…Maybe I became…too accustomed…to the sameness…It was certainly easier…for me to shed…her friends…than she to shed…my notions…Our mothers belonged…to the same clubs…Our fathers tracked…the same night devils…They all had the same expectations…from…of…at…or to…us…I liked to brood…she didn’t…She liked to laugh…I didn’t…I thought I was ugly…she didn’t…
Pots are taught not to call kettles Black…people who live in glass houses…don’t throw stones…small town girls learn early…or not at all…that they can make a life…or abort the promise…One of us tried…one of us didn’t have to…To each…according to her birth…from each according to her ability…Which is bastardized Marx…but legitimate bourgeoisie…She was never caring…She never learned to see…beyond her own windshield…that there were other people on the sidewalk…other cars…on the road…She drank…too much…for too long…Maybe in the back of her mind…or heart…or closet…there was a sign saying: There-Is-More-Than-This…but she wouldn’t pull it out…put it up…or even acknowledge that some things…many things…were missing…I accept…if not embrace…the pain…the sign on my car says: I Brake For Gnomes…the one in my heart reads: Error In Process—Please Send Chocolate…
Into the rising sun…or setting years…accustomed to the scattered friends littering the road…she drives on…with the confidence of small town drivers who know every wayfall…toward the smaller minds…around the once hopeful lovers…into the illusion of what it is…to be a woman…through the delusion that trip necessitates…never once slowing…to ask Did I Hurt You…May I Love You…Can I/May I Please Give…You A Lift…With the surety…of one who never had to walk…she accelerates…toward boredom…secure in the understanding…that everybody knows her…and would be unlikely to ticket…her cruising car…She was my friend…more than a sister…really…a part of the mirror…against which I adjust…my makeup…I have no directions…but here is a sign…Thomas Wolfe was wrong…Maybe it will be read…