This evening I took time to loiter on my back porch. The sun was setting bloody over the Allegheny to the west, toward Augusta Springs, and I dangled my limbs into the sticky backyard and looked at the late season rare mess of fireflies and pumpkin vines and sunflowers where the goldfinch had been being crybabies all afternoon. I tried to say, "I am inhabiting this failure." and for a little while, that worked: all my rich masochism filled everything in and I thought of this O'Hara, close to it:
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
But it never lasts. I keep saying, "no one ruined you, you did this to yourself" but it just circles around again. I can't get away from this right now. I need to stop trying, and put my shoulder to something else.
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