but that bluet was the focus of it all: last spring, next spring, what does it matter? unexpected as a tear when someone reads a poem you wrote for him: “it’s this line here.” the bluet breaks me up, tiny spring flower late, late in dour october. james schuyler, the bluet.

And is it stamina
that unseasonably freaks
forth a bluet, a
Quaker lady, by
the lake? So small,
a drop of sky that
splashed and held,
four-petaled, creamy
in its throat. The woods
around were brown,
the air crisp as a
Carr’s table water
biscuit and smelt of
cider. There were frost
apples on the trees in
the field below the house.
The pond was still, then
broke into a ripple.
The hills, the leaves that
have not yet fallen
are deep and oriental
rug colors. Brown leaves
in the woods set off
gray trunks of trees.
But that bluet was
the focus of it all: last
spring, next spring, what
does it matter? Unexpected
as a tear when someone
reads a poem you wrote
for him: “It’s this line
here.” That bluet breaks
me up, tiny spring flower
late, late in dour October.

i’m writing this at home because i don’t have the heart to write it at work, which is usually where i write my blog entries.

i have a big, enduring crush on the cfo at my firm. he’s in the fixed income group, i have no idea what that means but i think they are doing badly. he is 51, i have, like some crazy asian bitch, google stalked him more times than i can remember and know an unhealthy amount about his career. he is colombian, went to school in california and his father owns an insurance company and probably has friends in the drug cartel. 

but he looks and talks like a gringo (notice the integration of spanish, indicative of how much bolano i’ve been reading lately, no such thing as too much) and is tall and lean. he’s in good shape for a man his age and i have no problem picturing him naked.

although the nature of my attraction to him is not physical, or sexual. even when i have dreams about him where i’m his mistress and he has put me up in his fucking castle in colombia where i am sort of friends with gabriel garcia marquez…even then i never see us making love. he just speaks to me kindly and tells me stories about his life…which has been colorful and varied, because he is old, rich, and in my imagination, really fuckin cool.

why do i like him? to tell the truth, i think he liked me first. because when he met me, he looked at me with these honest eyes. and every time i bumped into him at the office i grinned like a young girl and he smiled at me and when i walked passed him and turned around, he was still looking at me, still smiling.

he’s married to a wasp and has three sons, the eldest who is still several years younger than me. younger than my little brother. 

one time i did something for him which was completely within my job description and he was so touched as i handed him his papers. “you did this for me?” and he said, surprised and grateful. i must have nodded or covered my face with my hands cause i’m a fucking idiot. all the while some overblown narrative going on in my head where i am his mistress and i live in his castle in colombia…

anyways, he was so touched and i swear he was about to touch my arm or actually, i think he really wanted to hug me. everything was ablaze at the thought of it. but it would have been inappropriate, considering we were standing in the hallway, in front of the boardroom, the offices of the senior portfolio managers to the right and left us. perfect imagery of all the social and economic restraints preventing our love–

he signs his emails, simply, and childishly, “e.”

thank you aera for helping me the other day.

e.

is e for everlasting, evermore, or nEver. 
…
Thank you Foo Daroo! usually i feel stupid if i misspell things but seriously, i didn’t even know colOmbia was in south america! *giggle, tosses hair*