I never imagined my wedding as a little girl. My favorite Disney movie is 'Beauty and the Beast' where ultimately it is Belle who saves the Beast. I don't stand up for the bouquet toss at weddings but I do hope for the fairytale. And I know this is the protest of every independent woman out there but there is a small part in the back of our minds that is hoping that today will be the day we will meet the man of our dreams. It might not be obvious at the time but the thought is always there. I have come to realize though that this hope is not only ridiculous but statistically is just not going to happen.
In an article I read recently there was a quote from a clinical psychologist that said to get a guy to pop the question 49 percent of it depends on the right woman and 51 percent depends on his readiness to commit. On the same day, my friend told me that her college sweetheart who she dated on and off for ten years is getting married. His reason: because his bride is someone who will not cheat on him. I also know a girl who is getting married after being with her future husband for eight years and seven of those eight years he cheated on her. And she knows it. This isn't quite the fairytale I had in mind.
On the flip side staying single involves having crushes who never pan out because cynicism sets in and takes over the situation, one night stands who turn into year long flings who turn out to have live-in girlfriends, and of course the ever annoying relatives who are praying that this holiday season you are going to bring someone home. So I could have a man who is so ambivalent about me that his primary reason to marry me is because I wouldn't cheat on him or potential drama with hook-up guy's girlfriend. These are my options? Someone gouge out my eyeballs now. I told this to one of my friends who happens to happily be in a relationship with a guy who she is planning on marrying someday. I told her I didn't want to rain on her parade but even if I found the right guy tomorrow it would only 49% matter. The other 51% would depend on if he was 'ready for me'. That means I could meet a fantastic guy and we could be together for years and he may always be looking for greener grass and I would be none the wiser because I thought that meeting the right person was equivalent to being ready for a relationship. Silly me.
What ever happened to romantic, want to spend the rest of my life with you kind of love that led to marriage instead of well, we've been dating for a decade now you wanna just get married or what? What if I meet someone who I think is the One and later realize that I was only honorable mention to him and that his One person just came at the wrong time. So the question is, do I follow the herd, drink the Kool-Aid and decide to just take the best of what comes along and be on my deluded version of a fairytale way or do I still believe that there is someone who will not only hold the boom box over his head but will also arrive at just the right time? In my fairtytale I'm sure my prince will chug my Kool-Aid, trip over the boom box, and be late.
But at least there will be a happy ending.
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CB-- pay close attention to the 4th verse where he talks about living with and observing a happy couple. "Fairy tales that drugged us."-- 'nough said. Great song, magnificent poem. I studied it deeply at one time, it really spoke to me, and I will never, ever forget it. I hope you like it to!
Waste Of Paint
Bright Eyes
I have a friend, he is mostly made of pain.
And he wakes up, drives to work,
and then straight back home again.
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him he had a sense
of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said
"Thank you, please
but your flattery
is truly not
becoming me.
Your eyes are poor.
You're blind.
You see,
no beauty could have come from me.
I'm a waste
of breath,
of space,
of time."
I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
And her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied
and she decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.
But then she wept.
What did you expect?
In that big, old house
with the cars she kept.
"And such is life," she often said.
With one day leading
to the next,
you get a little closer to your death,
which was fine with her.
She never got upset
and with all the days she may have left,
she would never clean
another mess
or fold his shirts
or look her best.
She was free
to waste
away
alone.
Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove.
And this cop he pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said, "Officer! Officer! You got the wrong man.
No, no, I'm a student of medicine, a son of a banker, you don't understand!"
The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful.
And your carelessness, it is something awful.
And no, I can't just let you go.
And though your father's name is known,
your decisions now are yours alone.
You are nothing but a stepping stone
on a path
to debt,
to loss,
to shame."
The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind who buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle.
And I love their love and I am thankful
that someone actually receives the prize that was promised
by all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely,
no laurel tree,
just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?
Like Love's some kind of lottery,
where you scratch and see
what's underneath.
It's "Sorry",
just one cherry,
or "Play Again."
Get lucky.
So I've been hanging out down by the train's depot.
No, I don't ride.
I just sit and watch the people there.
And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your lives one track,
can't they see it's pointless?
But just then, my knees
give under me.
My head feels weak
and suddenly
it's clear to see
it's not them but me,
who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind
these books I read,
while scribbling
my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real;
it is just a sketch in me.
And everything I made is trite
and cheap
and a waste
of paint,
of tape,
of time.
So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there’s some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them.
The range is too high,
way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue,
forget the song,
tie my shoe
start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
with my broken heart
and my absent God
and I have no faith
but it's all I want,
to be loved.
And believe,
in my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.
You're a genious! I'm friends with a writing genious :)
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