A faithful reader sent me a poem that allegedly Frida Kahlo wrote--I did not confirm that part. Here:
"leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier maché puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street."
I think Frida Kahlo broke up with and got back together with Diego Rivera 400 times. That doesn't mean I don't still love that poem.
What was so great about Diego Rivera? I mean, sure, Frida Kahlo could have sauntered on over to the waxing salon a little more often than she did, but she was sexy. Diego Rivera looks like some schlub. He looks like when your friend invites you over and her drunk uncle hits on you. Diego Rivera's that guy.
He kind of looks like someone who'd go over to the young girl's house on To Catch a Predator. "I'm just making some sweet tea."
Frida Kahlo looks exactly like the pictures she painted of herself. Which reminds me that yesterday at work, we were all taking a walk and discussing what our favorite Halloween costume had been in our childhood, and my one coworker, Thousandman, was answering. Another, younger coworker said, "Oh, cool. Are there any tintypes from that? Did your family commission a Rembrandt of it?"
See, that there is hilarious. "He painted a selfie in oil," I said, which was called a self-portrait because we weren't idiots then. I wonder what ancient Kardashians were like. I wonder if they were annoying through the annals of history, too, with all the self-portraits. The oilies.
"He saved the cave drawing of his Halloween costume," I said, before remembering that Thousandman is, in fact, younger than me. So.
I was talking with another coworker about how I could be even more pathetic right now. I told him about going to bed with all my clothes on, at 6 p.m., the other night."Did you keep your shoes on? That makes it much sadder."
I vowed to do that in the future. Then we discussed how I could go to bed at 6, then roll out in the morning and come to work that way. Or, even more dramatic, I could come to work in my robe.
My cousin had something awful happen to her, way more awful than a breakup with someone you still live with, which you have to admit is right up there on the awful scale. Anyway, she vowed to get up, get dressed and do her makeup every day, no matter what. I have always been inspired by that, so I guess I'll stop blopping now and get dressed and put on makeup that I can cry off later.
Joooon. The alone Joooon. June. Now in single servings.