Weekend Getaway, or, Don't Tell Me What To Do

"What I mean is that you can taste the blood in your mouth when it happens," he stared at me.

I felt that this should be an excerpt of a much more interesting conversation. I was bored with his shock at dental floss mishaps. I took a breath before I started speaking.

"Okay, here's what I've got for you:

You need to live.  I know you don't want to hear that. I know you're content in your routine of making your own meals every week, hanging your dress shirts around your house and feeding yet ignoring a cat that is obviously in some serious pain, but there is more to this.

THEREIS MORETOTHIS

You love to camp. Go camping. You can do that completely stupid and unfunny thing where you stick a polish sausage in the mac and cheese and pretend your having sex with it. You love the trees.  Get in the car and go see some fucking trees.  The pine, the pitch, the tar, whatever the fuck you call it.

You can tell me all about it.

You can tell me how all you want's a steady fuck.

You can tell me how you're afraid you're too boring.

You probably are.

Who cares?

Just fucking *do* this shit. Get out there and live.

Live or Die: But don't poison everything. Anne Sexton said that.  You know what she decided.

But listen to her, anyway.

Cut the mental cords of your parents. Stop blaming everyone else for your unhappiness.  Just get out there and live.  Balance it out with hiding out, I know you need to, but go dance. Go paint. Go travel. Go find a cabin. Go invite someone to that blood villain mansion whose finger fits into that ring you want to give her.

And therein lies your steady fuck.

Do you see what I'm saying, here?"

He was silent.

Either thoughtful or murderous, I could not tell.




-k.

(photo: Ling Tan photographed by Peter Linbergh for Vogue Italia, Dec 2003)