Neptune’s Yellow Sands

The usual story, again.  The no apology this time?  We’ll see.  Beer and cigarettes, glossy eyes and plastic smile, confused behaviour and strange words.  All the same signs.  The jealousy as well, inexplicable.  Jamaican poutine, a bad thing to point out, apparently.   Always left so sleepless and fearful, the 10pm return and the driving with child this time a new cause for panic. Response to the circumstances never works, always escalates it, the late arrival and then the drinking - accused of being a coward, etc.  twice since you’ve been home from NYC, it’s been the beer and cigarettes, probably the nights you were away as well.  Sad to think you just cannot be away and expect to return to stability in the aftermath.  Oh well.  Conversation with Coop most apt.  Nothing to prepare you in literature or family life, until you are in it. And so far the only sure remedy is to pray until the morning.

Two days away, not the result we hoped for, and the return environment negativity all too familiar.  Funny how the conversation ended with Cooper on literature and other word of mouth avenues absolutely failing to pass on the reality of experience when it comes to the hormonal rollercoaster of relationships.  The madness.  The non-logic.  The same old patterns, the same words and scenes brought back again and again, the inability to move on.   But worst the failure of my own reaction to the predictable and recursive behavior.  The inability to remain above, not to be cut to the core, to see the frustration rise, to just let me without panic and trust in the morrow. Should we even include the details of tonight’s Jazz Fest version, an aged Emmylou but spirited AA and good luck with the Bishops parking, only to return to a snoring, unwakeable partner, the smell of smoke and disappointment.  Where did I go wrong?  Leaving in the first place sadly. ...