Curse that Peter Vella boxed wine. And my mother.
It's not real, you know. This is creative non-fiction. These are the slings and arrows of martyrdom and sainthood. Pain is what we go through on the way to peace which is what we get right before more pain.
Cary Tennis is a genius and writes for Salon.com and wrote this: "Your past is not something that needs to be repaired. You can't get up on top of it with a ladder and fix it like a roof. You can't do anything about it except regard it with awed attention. It is like the sea, far beyond us, far too deep, far too wide, far too powerful." He has also written a bunch of great stuff about therapy. I cut it out and put it in my journal like a lame weeping wreck. Sister walked in on my fit yesterday and after having established for both of us that it's not PMS, announced that I need therapy. Sisters are not always right, but try and tell them that--nearly impossible when they are actually, in the moment they come home from Target and find you writhing on the couch, correct.
Maybe I'm not feeling that great but let me tell you: I have the greatest Cousins in the world. They are somewhere in this picture. Guess at their shapes and protect their anonymity--the families of Saints are never well represented.
We cruised the Crazy Christmas House on Logan Blvd. We went to Chief O'Neill's and forced the 15 year old to step dance in return for mediocre Irish music. We drank too much and were ridiculously sentimental. We went to St. Sabina and yelled Amen and then we ate a collective dairy's worth of cheese at Lou Mitchell's. It was what I dreamed for us when we were growing up: I dreamt we would always love eachother and want to be together, and develop the sharp but ridiculous love that families have but a softer and sweeter one than that of our parents. Now I am going to buy a six flat and lure them from their parents and force them to live here in the Greatest City in the World. Cousins Run Chicago: we will have embroidered jackets.
It's not real, you know. This is creative non-fiction. These are the slings and arrows of martyrdom and sainthood. Pain is what we go through on the way to peace which is what we get right before more pain.
Cary Tennis is a genius and writes for Salon.com and wrote this: "Your past is not something that needs to be repaired. You can't get up on top of it with a ladder and fix it like a roof. You can't do anything about it except regard it with awed attention. It is like the sea, far beyond us, far too deep, far too wide, far too powerful." He has also written a bunch of great stuff about therapy. I cut it out and put it in my journal like a lame weeping wreck. Sister walked in on my fit yesterday and after having established for both of us that it's not PMS, announced that I need therapy. Sisters are not always right, but try and tell them that--nearly impossible when they are actually, in the moment they come home from Target and find you writhing on the couch, correct.
Maybe I'm not feeling that great but let me tell you: I have the greatest Cousins in the world. They are somewhere in this picture. Guess at their shapes and protect their anonymity--the families of Saints are never well represented.
We cruised the Crazy Christmas House on Logan Blvd. We went to Chief O'Neill's and forced the 15 year old to step dance in return for mediocre Irish music. We drank too much and were ridiculously sentimental. We went to St. Sabina and yelled Amen and then we ate a collective dairy's worth of cheese at Lou Mitchell's. It was what I dreamed for us when we were growing up: I dreamt we would always love eachother and want to be together, and develop the sharp but ridiculous love that families have but a softer and sweeter one than that of our parents. Now I am going to buy a six flat and lure them from their parents and force them to live here in the Greatest City in the World. Cousins Run Chicago: we will have embroidered jackets.
posted by St. Renegade at 11:42 PM
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