psa to diouana women who mistake fact for fiction

and vice versa

can i tell you a secret?

i miss myself.

the me i used to be before life became a responsibility.

a never-ending to-do list.

a call to arms.

but to be fair, i did this to myself.

i simply do not know when to quit.

i have a bad habit of overworking.

and it’s not even that i enjoy burning the midnight oil,

it’s just that i recognize that

if i don’t at least try,

it may not happen.

so trying is my insurance against my dreams not happening.

after all, in this life, nothing is a guaranteed.

but underneath all that trying,

is yearning.

yearning for rest,

for silence,

and the quiet passion of being met.

i think you and i both know what i’m trying to say.

and if you don’t, that’s quite alright.

when the moment is right, i’ll tell you all about it.

until then,

try not to work so hard.

…before you go, i have another secret to confess.

wait, no.

i mean disclose.

it’s through confession that one becomes a witch¹,

so don’t believe anything i say.

a man i’ve never met haunts me.

ice for eyes,

and silver for hair.

i know him by instinct,

if nothing else.

but there’s something else.

there always is.

the one from washington square park.

after the one from tatte.

but before the gallerist.

“do you only remember them by location?” she quipped.

“memory functions in location,” i tell her.

mine is stuck in a liminal space.

sight, sound, smell.

but the universe listens.

i picked up a scent the other day:

st. tropez.

then she invited me to france with her.

“luck would have it” i said.

and i decided i’m not really alone,

just overworked.

tired.

underfed, underutilized, and undermet.

longing. as if i don’t know i’m the cause of my own problems.

seeing ghosts where none appear,

and making cemeteries out of contacts.

“you need to bury the dead properly,” she says.

“the haunting is a lack of burial,” she warned.

“hush,” i told her.

speak too loudly,

and you’ll disturb the peace.

it’s not really about him.

like i said, i only miss myself.

“and if he calls?” she teased.

tell him you only miss yourself.

“and if he insists?” she pressed.

tell him you met another.

and another.

and another.

an

other.

eventually, you’ll have to face the music.

you realize that, don’t you?

for all your brains,

you really can be so stupid.

so young,

so dumb,

so determined,

so raw.

i heard a 50 year old woman say,

“i’m too smart to have chosen what i’ve chosen.”

and i recognized myself in her words.

love is the equalizer of all.

and where are you in all of this?

self-abandoned.

and half-forgotten.

remember when he warned,

“your worst sin is that you have destroyed

and betrayed yourself for nothing.”

has it really all been for naught?

how else could you have learned these lessons?

in montauk with the global head if i hadn’t been so stupid.

my mother did warn me after all.

but my god-king said, “if a man loves you, he’ll meet you where you are.”

and, clearly, it wasn’t love.

so, off to new jersey i went.

in-laws can be really such fun.

“don’t make such jokes,” she scolds.

silly girl,

don’t you know commitments are for life?

pushing back, i told her, “i’m a diouana woman.”

i always honor my obligations.

besides, i know the real prize

is a life spent with me.

or is it?

a selfish, materialistic, ingenue-whore.

some wife you’d make.

crueler words have been said.

but are they true?

i don’t know,

you’ll have to ask him.

but i’m not asking him,

i’m speaking to you.

are you who you say you are?

if i wasn't, why would i say i am?

because you have a flair for the dramatic,

and your memory is unreliable.

“all memory is unreliable” i told her.

not yours.

you, who remembers every freudian slip,

every cruel intention

every malice and psychological warfare hurdled your way.

so, i ask again,

is it true that you really are a selfish, materialistic, ingenue-whore?

guilty as charged.

“will you hang me for it?”

i don’t know,

you’ll have to ask him.

sweet dreams,

a diouana woman

1. not my own words.