Offentlig brev

Nå har det jeg skriver blitt for privat, selv for denne bloggen.
Og ordene kanskje noe du ikke vil lese. Så jeg lar det være.

Sannsynligvis er det riktig, at det er sånn. Sannsynligvis skal det være for my eyes only fra nå, eller kanskje ett par til (dog muntlig).

Men jeg fikk det supreste skrujernsettet du har sett i bursdagsgave (og middag).
You'd approve.

Jeg er glad i deg, vet du. Vil ikke bidra til mer angst og tenners gnissel. Men ikke spør, for da svarer jeg. Det renner over, renner over, renner over.

Malapropos, sjekk ut Nathan Shachar - leser en essaysamling av ham nå (om Spania) - fenomenalt bra.

S.

The last day of the year

It's today.
The last day of the year.
I know it's only November, but today is the last day in the calendar year tracking the days of my life.
Today that life is 30 years and 364 days long.

And I've been cranky. Only sligthly, but cranky.
More sensitive, irrationally sore over complaints that a small dinner party is too dull.
When it was small and cozy I wanted.

It tends to be like this, I think. Not sure, but think
that the day before
has always been ambivalent
uncertain
and the day itself more jubilant. Regardless of the scale of the celebration.

Taking stock. Grumbling.
Hurrah hurrah, my darling, you'll be 31 tomorrow!

Pink

This is;

I am
in danger of being
in danger of falling
in danger of having fallen
in love;

love.

Deny it,
surely:
I am in like and lust
but that is all

untill the pink creeps in
and softens all the edges
- or my fear?

And sunlight fills the shape
of where you stood
and smiled of me
because, I do not know,
because I kissed you then.

I am in love and like and lust

but will survive it
if you go away.

Though not for long,
I fear, and felt the need
-when we had said goodbye-
to take things slow.

But then the pink crept in
and said "it's fine, relax, enjoy".

And that is what I know.

Jeg leker detektiv...

Det er lett, når en først får noen puslespillbiter.
Men det jeg finner
er for bra. Jeg henfaller til nesegrus
lamslått beundring.

Det kan umulig være sunt:

Husk for all del
at du liker ham fordi han fikset bremsene på sykkelen din
og ikke for hva han heter
eller hvem han kjenner.
Fordi han er snill med søsteren sin
(og god å kysse)
og ikke at han har gått
på det rette akademiet
(om det nå er noe å ha i hatten, hva vet jeg).

Det hjelper ikke.
Jeg er lamslått
og nesegrust

.

Jeg er så glad!

Jeg skal bli tante!
Så lenge til at det burde være hemmelig, men jeg klarer ikke la være. Det bobler over.

Det andre bobler også over.
- Ni kollar av varann, sa Jenny
- testar hur mycket ni kan säga utan att säga att ni tycker om varann rent ut.
(Han sa "apropå vaddå? apropå mig och dig?". Tenker han seg et meg og deg?! )

Det er nesten som hjertet er større enn brystet.
Jeg skal bli tante.

In love/lust

When he's there (you know, one to two feet away at most), I am pleased to note that at no point do I fool myself that I'm in love. Nor immediately afterwards.
I mean, it's not that there isn't tenderness and caring and a hand holding mine suddenly somewhere in the landscapes of duvets and bodies sleeping.
Faces close makes me smile, silently; in what context have I heard about breathing the same air? Tantric sex? or is it relationship therapy, perhaps.
I enjoy and feel grateful for his frankness when it comes to those white spots I can think but not articulate. I am frank in return.
That sums up to like.
Added to that, my body has decided to turn to jelly over silly things like his voice, or hands touching or - even - the thought of him.
That's a lust thing.

But it's the day after, the day after the first lonely night in a bed which is suddenly big, it's the day after I wake up and notice the semblance of a crush. Smile of mush, limbs weak, heart touched by possible dreams with reruns of the look in his eyes after the last kiss (goodbye).
Then it feels like in love. And if he catches me before the feeling has diminished, who knows how I'll feel when he is one foot away next time.

If there is a next time, of course.