girl plays with fire known to burn

It has been pointed out to me that I haven't posted in awhile.

Sometimes my feelings are too raw to publicly post (although I admit my readership of 6, all well acquainted with my scars, might not qualify as "public"). I think about Anne Lamott who does exactly that--bleed before the public (she can claim a public readership)--and how her candor inspires me. But then, ugh... my problems don't glitter or entertain as hers do.

So the story goes... girl plays with fire known to burn.

This fire is of the masculine variety, and (don't roll your collective eyes) is kindled by the same man-boy-wolf who broke my heart two years ago. You'd think I'd get it the second time around. The problem is painfully familiar: I fall for that which is impossible, inscrutable, untameable. The kindest and most loving man may appear with flowers and a bottle of wine and I'd be distracted by the lost-looking boy up to no good across the street.

I called my brother in the middle of the night to discuss the situation. He loves me and never ceases to listen as I peruse the causes of more heartbreak. And he knows well the homemade causes of this firelust, of my propensity to love men who are incapable of loving me in return.

Here Anne Lamott and I are not so different (yes, I flatter myself): we scorn the love of male before us unless it burns with the mythical light of that man who gave us our name; longing for what we never fully had, for what we cannot recreate.

Or maybe I'm just being melodramatic. And, for the record, I think Anne Lamott got over this problem long ago...