We're packing up to move to a different house, there's that feeling of inventory hanging over everything, it's tough to even eat a sandwich.
I want to ask before I say anything else, is it extremely self-absorbed to never watch the news and only sometimes read the news. I'm just trying to collect some evidence for how self-absorbed I may or may not be. I'm aware that I'm writing about my own self-absorption; each keystroke toward that effort is evidence. Fine.
Does every mother feel like the most selfish mother.
I think many mothers feel very selfless.
But maybe the selflessness becomes so commonplace, so baseline, that over top of it is built an at-first rickety, then towering monument, sturdy, of selfishness, desire, entitlement. A tricky sort of thing, because its foundation is understood to be, recognized as, sacrifice.
I don't know where I fall. I fear that I've been sucked a little into a me-vortex. Someone should tell me. I fear the people around me are too nice. My mother would tell me, has told me. And my mother is a mother, with no monument. Or maybe a monument, that I've built for her. I don't want to talk about mothers anymore.
The alone fantasy is so strong lately, and I want to say, I don't want to be without you or without you but I just want to be by myself. I don't want to leave you, I just want to be gone.
To a single room with a single bed in a cold place.
What would happen? To me? Who has been amongst for so long?
A thick, deep quiet. Cigarettes, probably. A lot of words.
I'm thinking a lot, of course, about writers who are mothers. I don't want to talk about it. It's not a conversation I want to enter. It's there, like so many other things. I'm not special. I'm not too special.
Desire. It's the guiding principle. It should be more, love, I think. You can "desire to be loved." Which has nothing to do with love--only desire. You don't have to "desire to love."
You just love.
I'm filled with desire for a tiny, cold place, where I can sit and love quietly and write quickly, until the desire brings me home. Until the love brings me home.
What an embarrassing post.
I walked around bra-less for most of the day, since there's no real difference. And I waited until my neighbor left his front porch and went inside before I checked the mail, because I didn't want to say hello.
Does every mother feel like the most selfish mother.
I think many mothers feel very selfless.
But maybe the selflessness becomes so commonplace, so baseline, that over top of it is built an at-first rickety, then towering monument, sturdy, of selfishness, desire, entitlement. A tricky sort of thing, because its foundation is understood to be, recognized as, sacrifice.
I don't know where I fall. I fear that I've been sucked a little into a me-vortex. Someone should tell me. I fear the people around me are too nice. My mother would tell me, has told me. And my mother is a mother, with no monument. Or maybe a monument, that I've built for her. I don't want to talk about mothers anymore.
The alone fantasy is so strong lately, and I want to say, I don't want to be without you or without you but I just want to be by myself. I don't want to leave you, I just want to be gone.
To a single room with a single bed in a cold place.
What would happen? To me? Who has been amongst for so long?
A thick, deep quiet. Cigarettes, probably. A lot of words.
I'm thinking a lot, of course, about writers who are mothers. I don't want to talk about it. It's not a conversation I want to enter. It's there, like so many other things. I'm not special. I'm not too special.
Desire. It's the guiding principle. It should be more, love, I think. You can "desire to be loved." Which has nothing to do with love--only desire. You don't have to "desire to love."
You just love.
I'm filled with desire for a tiny, cold place, where I can sit and love quietly and write quickly, until the desire brings me home. Until the love brings me home.
What an embarrassing post.
I walked around bra-less for most of the day, since there's no real difference. And I waited until my neighbor left his front porch and went inside before I checked the mail, because I didn't want to say hello.
2 Comments:
I have been thinking of this idea of self absorbed mothers these days too. I don't think you are one of them. If you were, you would be "so busy" that you wouldn't have time to think about how self absorbed you are.
If I get around to expounding on my brilliant thoughts on my own blog, do you mind if I link to your blog?
hi moira, i'd love to read your thoughts. and of course i wouldn't mind...link away ;)
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