Crying in the Aisles

we're doing a massive RPL at work- which means we're combing the sections for books to send to purgatory. a lot of the books i'm like, oh yah, that needed to go back where it came from, but some i'm like, aw i never got to read you. and then suddenly i'm sad that all the books are being sent away, and wonder where they go or if they're burned up in a conflagration. one in particular was a picture book called angelo. i stood there and read it unabashadly in the quiet of the morning, about a man and his care and nurturing of a pigeon and how he was this craftsman accomplishing his lifes work and by the end of the very short book i was crying, and thinking oh my god, what is WRONG with me, as i glanced around for any witnesses- i never used to act like such a girl... and lately a few friends and i have all had these peculiar girl moments... i ponder it like a disease that i've been stricken with- as i quickly mopped up the rivlets and sniffed and tried not to think how sad and beautiful angelo was. sniff, mop, mop. why is it i find myself crying? just put the book down and walk away. possibly i've become a healthier person, or at least that's what i used to tell myself... more expressive, vulnerable, compassionate... except for that overwhelming- I'M A FREAK- feeling... though i know we all do it. maybe? and why? but in general i'm against tender moments... sometimes i wonder why everyone feels the need to cry at funerals but i guess we all generally get caught up in a feeling sometimes- whatever those are.

today i read sisterhood of the tp.2. most all of it elicitly caught up and neglecting my work, but it stopped the internal monologue- which went something like, please i have to go. let me go. why can't i go. god? why can't i go? is my replacement here? this is what i will be telling my replacement... . i can best describe it as a storm in the summer- humid- hot in chicago. and the pressure is building and the thunder is cracking and you're just praying that it'll break and the rain will come with that wippet of fresh air as everything is getting drenched. but why won't it come? as everything just builds and builds... the context of all the tennesse williams plays become clear and i find myself in the deep south waiting for something better and possibly crying over all the cruel tender moments of life and death and time ticking by, and a book right then in there is like stepping out of the storm and into a quiet place, with just the hum of central air kicking in.