Side note, I love the eclectic gathering of vowels in bourgeoise , almost like you're singing Old McDonald's farm in some classy French-y accent. Excellent.
I've had the startling revelation lately that I am beige. Not stucco, not a pale crumbling ochre, certainly not moving into the ethereal realms of ivory, but BEIGE. The colour of my much loathed maternity bras beige. Generic and unflattering beige. Even the word is dull as it kind of gets shoved out of your mouth as a sneer.
I realised this some time ago, but was hoping it was an edgy beige. Bourgeoisie with an eclectic, unexpected edge. Everyone thinks that they're interesting, so it should not really be surprising to me that I'm not. It is a strange feeling to be thrust into the suburban life and to enjoy it, but to also have a nagging itch that I really shouldn't be enjoying it. I am edgy, I am one of these things that is not like the others. I see that which others miss as they trudge through their banal lives... But I am not. I am one of them. I enjoy knitting for fuck's sake! Where did I go wrong?
I picked up a piece of graphite the other day, hidden in a draw for literally (and shamefully) years, and I wanted to feel the passion I once felt for its smudgy oiliness, the way the grey black smear would slide over bright white paper or canvas and would turn into my feelings and my depair except you could see it. But I couldn't feel it. I wanted to, I wanted to pretend that I felt it, that it was still lurking there, that at any moment I could throw in my sensible and coveted degree and become a chain smoking artiste on the banks of the Seine, but I can't. I don't feel it any more.
I'm not angry any more. I am not sad any more. I am not defeated. And yet, somehow, defeated and sliced, red drops pooling in my palm, that seems romantic now. Passionate. Breathless and in anticipation for the entrance of great things. But at the same time desolate and strange, and moody. Storm like. Interesting.
It's a cow of a thing really, insight and ambition. Having insight into myself is not nearly as fulfilling as it should be. I can laugh at my foibles, at the pain I once felt, and it feels like the smug laughter of those that I would have hated when I was there. So what's the go with me? How have I turned into her? Her? What happened to Phil? Blithe, closed, unhappy, suicidal, intense, ambitious Phil?
I always wanted to live a life less ordinary. One that was special, marked, important. I guess it just never occurred to me that everyone else did as well. So I did things out of the ordinary, I took chances, but they were safe chances. They gave me a safe life. And I'm so grateful for this life, grateful for the Elfling and the Monkey, grateful for the fact that I have a husband who adores me and who I love painting a future with. But it still feels like there is somethign missing. Like my wings are being hidden under this bourgeoise life where I actually like making plain ol' lasagne for dinner and I watch commercial TV without a hint of irony.
I don't know where Phil is, but I know she is still there somewhere, starved and in need of sustenance. I just wish I was brave enough to let her out.