small, dreamy interstices.

April 21, 2012

Family hurts. Family always hurts. Even when I’m happy with my family it hurts, just in a good way. In an oh god I love my parents so much it aches kind of way. I find it impossible to be grateful and to not ache with gratefulness at the same time.

ache. it’s a good word.

it’s a good emotion. almost enjoyable, for all that it is a species of hurt. it reminds you that you have insides.

 

 

chicken soup and leftover bread. this is good bread, even stale and popped into the microwave for warmth and softness.

popped. it’s an odd word, popped. saying it is a small explosion, a soft implosion, a foreign noise like the fluff of corn suddenly appearing, miraculous as a birth. three syllables. Plosives. Soft on the lips.

it makes me think of poppenhuis. dollhouse, in Dutch.

 

I did a poetry course in my first year of university. there was a woman there with thick-framed glasses and short hair, dyed. Middle-aged. I recall her being kind, friendly the way you’re friendly to a strange and thorny person who is just so young it- hurts.

she wrote a poem about Petronella’s poppenhuis. and about a Rembrandt painting.

 

I rarely ache about friends. mostly I hurt for them or am hurt by them.

 

 

 

it’s funny how love aches.

 

 

 

 

chicken soup is gone. flatmates are home, noise and friendship and the cold outside and conversation, everyday and friendly, mundane and muddled and- lovely. I’ve had enough of wine. I’m done with Stevie Smith for the evening. I’m sleepy. Wine makes me sleepy.

 

I wouldn’t stop the ache for a whole world. Hurting from deep affection is intense and flavourful and complex as a good wine.

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