I know a girl, got a long snake moan
Got the voodoo in her hips and a god-shaped hole
I got a feeling that the kids don’t know
What the kids don’t know, the kids don’t mind
We all work on borrowed time
Rory never asked anything of me except to be his friend and listen to him. Share a story or two. Talk about our spouses and our children. Our love of the written word. We’ve found out that we’re so much alike. I call him my brother. He calls me sister. I think he’s even blonde like me. Blue eyed. He’s a music whore. Word whore. Like me. Loves to write. Like me. He hides his identity, unlike me. I lay it all out there. He doesn’t. That’s okay though. He wouldn’t feel comfortable writing what he writes if he didn’t hide. I understand. I should have hidden part of me away. Protected myself, but I didn’t know what I was doing when I started this journey.
He asked me to write for him and I did. It was exciting to stare at a picture, and see the words form. Feel the emotion of the story before I even put pen to paper. When I was done I asked him if he wanted to read it before I posted. He said no. I was taken aback. It could have been shit. Rory could have hated it. There I went with my self-deprecation. He told me to post it. Said he knew it was came from my heart and mind, so it had to be good. He said he felt like a kid at Christmas, waiting to open the largest present under the tree. After I posted it, he sent me a message thanking me. Said it was beautiful, like me. His comment made me cry. I wasn’t used to being told my writing was good, or being called beautiful for that matter.
We are content in our discontent, he and I. We are not discontent with our lives, our spouses or our children. But with ourselves. We have feelings of inadequacy that we can not shake. We feel like we are never good enough. No matter what we do to make the lives of those around us better. We often don’t feel worthy of the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. We wonder how we got so lucky to have such good lives. We weren’t good in our pasts . At least I wasn’t. I think he always was though. From what I’ve gathered from our conversations, he was never told he was good enough. And I, well, I was quite the wild child in my youth. For some reason the feelings and actions from 20-25 years ago come back to haunt us. Why, when we don’t live there anymore?
I’m so very thankful for Rory. For his brilliance. He doesn’t even realize what a good man he is. I tell him often enough. He tells me that I’m a good woman. We “get” each other. I hope someday we will meet. Get our families together and have a great time. I think we’d all click immediately. I hope I get the chance to write with him. That he wants me to. I hope, I hope, I hope, I hope…
*The song that I included with this post is by Our Lady Peace. The first time I heard it, I thought of Rory. Of our camaraderie. He’s like Roger Darling in that he let’s me run, rant, yell, scream and vent til I’m spent. Then he dispenses his wisdom. I’m fortunate that I have people in my life that get that about me. I’m so incredibly thankful.*