con / artistry

Lift not the painted veil those that live call life…
– Percy Bysshe Shelley

I could almost smell the perfume and the sweat. The fields were so green, so wet, and with the rain thundering outside my window, it was as if I was in the remotes of China. It was a breathtaking movie. The Notebook had nothin’ on W. Somerset Maugham. And it helped that Edward Norton gave up an ass shot.

There was a scene, afloat in opium smoke, where Naomi Watts says, “As if a woman has ever loved a man for his virtue.” She loved another man for passion, where her husband was a good man. It breaks my heart. Amongst the stories of rioting and sickness and death, it was the final redemption that made me cry.

Highly recommended.

I was cleaning house (virtual house) when I realized that I have been, for the most part, doodling here for the past seven years. Some have been less religiously than others. Not to say that con/artistry has been here for seven, but I have. From the ol’ showme server to blogspot before I shelled out $8.99 and tax to put my name here.

Meanwhile, the world exploded from all around me–Xanga, MySpace, and Facebook. I was a snob. Refused a little piece of theirs for my little piece. I still am, I guess.

I haven’t been faithful these last couple. I’ve diddled elsewhere. Mostly work. A little play. I feel like I’ve forgotten a lot. But it’s like riding a bike, they tell me, so I hop back on. Only, I don’t think I have anywhere to go. But the weather is nice, so here I am.

I remember seeing C again a while back, and she told me that I hadn’t changed at all. I hadn’t? I had to pull up the archives to be sure. I don’t remember the person that wrote all these things. I was so silly then. And now, I am…silly still. I stay up much too late. I can only drink half a can of soda at a time due to an anomaly of ridiculously small bladder size. I still haven’t figured out mascara.

But oh, I’ve fallen in love. I’ve held a heart in my hand. And I’ve let go. I’ve seen first and last breaths. I’ve flown across a nation and cross bridges–of both highways and people. I’ve found a way to live on my own and discovered a way to share my life. I cut my hair. I’m now growing it out again. Perhaps I will cut it again. I have a dog. I have a house. I sing.

Seven years. And perhaps, if I am so blessed, seven more.

I could hardly keep my attention on the matter at hand–I was so googly-eyed. A couple of firemen had brought in a kid to the ER for acute management of something or another. The kid was fine. And so were the firemen.

I mean, is there a reason wear shirts so tight that the slightest flexion would result in swooning women? And why are they always a little dirty and sweaty? I am embarrassed to admit that I find the suspenders a little sexy. A lot sexy. The younger of the two smiled in my vicinity, and I almost bow-chica-bow-wow‘d aloud. I kid you not. And all the sudden, I’m back in the fifth grade again, giggling and pinching butts.

Happy birthday to you, Mrs. Parker.

They were withdrawing care on T, and next door, M got her second chance. She was getting a new heart. For him, there was too much broken to fix. I watched the tears from room to room, completely different tears. When my own came, I couldn’t remember who I was crying for. Or what I was feeling. I was so tired, and so was T, and so was M. Eventually, the monitors went flat on T, a long sorrowful tone. And M, oh, she was so strong.

It’s interesting, with heart transplants. It can take a while before the new heart becomes innervated–connected to the brain, that is. So it beats on its own. It doesn’t race with love. It doesn’t stop with heartbreak. It is a like a drum, steady and strong, mindful of nothing but itself. An island.

My own is not such.