Tonight I didn't feel like fighting with my raging husband, nor lying to myself by mothering him and apologizing for something I never did. So I walked alone to the only coffee shop that was still open, bought a hot chocolate, made small talk with the sales clerks, and walked to the neighborhood bookstore where I stayed until closing. I bought "The Road" which won the Pulitzer prize or something, and a book of pre-revolution Russian poetry, but only because women poets were actually included in it, even if half of those were whiny male-centric poems, one which says something to the extent of '...If you don't love me, I wouldn't even mind, just as long as you marry me and give me a house and 2.5 kids...' Another gem goes something like, 'you're such a jerk but gee I'm addicted!' Utter crap. But other poems were really good. Like this one:
I'm still alive. That may be soon
a sin. Perhaps these days to live
is not the human thing to do.
Perhaps this age is iron and all
must fall. Perhaps it's not the poet
anymore who writes the poem.
- Marina Tsvetaeva, April 17, 1918
And how about this:
I drink to the wreck of our life together,
And the pain of living alone.
I drink to the loneliness we shared-
My dear, I drink to you.
I drink to the trick of a mouth that betrayed me,
To the eyes and the look that lied.
I drink to the terrible world we inhabit
And to god, who never replied.
- Anna Akhmatova
Well, nasdarovye.
Now I'm talking to someone I shouldn't. I'm apathetic. Perhaps I'll choose silence. Silence is so safe. I don't know where my husband is. Maybe I should call him.
1:30 a.m. - 2008-02-17