Wednesday, October 16, 2013

got a gut feeling.

maybe it's the hormones, I could blame this on, that emotional roller coaster, but no, I was feeling this for awhile, already seeking a way to extricate, and evidence piling up only confirms that feeling intuited a month ago. I find it easier to bail sooner rather than later, all hesitations validated, all red flags signaling no. Creativity especially with others is a strange thing, and sometimes you just don't click with others and it's better to figure that out now than later, and I'm not convinced by concessions made, I don't want to make those concessions.

Explaining this over the phone at 1am makes no sense and makes me sound like a jerk, and it shouldn't bother me that a good friend might think less of me because of this unsurety about the motivations of others, that maybe rankles the most. I don't know if there's anything else I could do. I go back and forth between relief and regret.I hope I haven't lost too much here.


  1. are there any good conversations to be had at 1am on the phone with people in your own timezone? get some rest.

    We'd hide in those years, Kate and I, behind the last station
    in the Bio lab—sneaking down from our dorm room, certain

    Sister Andrea didn't know. Smoking Salems, we giggled
    above the slant of a copped flashlight shrunk to Lady Chatterly

    and John Thomas spirited from the nuns' private library
    where we smiled our way by dust cloths and Pledge.

    We lived as sheltered vagabonds then, roaming the convent halls
    in curlers and bunny slippers, dipping out of sight at the swish

    of habit skirts, the click of rosary beads: the bed-check patrol
    we sidetracked with puffed-up pillows buried beneath blankets

    in the low glow of a Virgin Mary night light. Our days opened
    and shut like the hard-backed books we lugged around

    in drawstring sacks from class to class, skimming their surfaces
    like fledglings dipping at the skin of a lake. Only half mindful

    of the lessons electric in the passion of our teachers, half alert
    to the gaining weight of our widening minds.

    "Flying Lessons" by Bernadette McBride