poetryrepairs #206 14.11:125
JEAN HULL HERMAN : Margy's Monologue: Everything's Fine
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What do we do with Fado, this guitar sound and guttural Portuguese voice that has a twang of Arabia in its heart and is pure poesy. Life, loss longing and the finality of death, is in songs that celebrate love's unbearable sweetness, our tragedy and the unobtainable. Yes, sing me a Fado, let me hear the guitar and I will close my eyes float in a sea of melancholy and remember you.

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:125

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Margy's Monologue: Everything's Fine
December, 2000
I have invested a year and a half of my life in him. He owes me. When he didn't sail away on Labor Day, I assumed he was going to stay, stay with me, That everything was going to be fine. Sure, I ignored all the girls he knew; No matter where we went, there would be something, Some girl would whisper, laugh, eyes wide. Everywhere: hands and suntanned backs. And I put up with his being gone – I mean he'd leave, for days, no phone calls – Just saunter back again while I was at work. When I'd come home, He'd be bound up in my computer. But he was back - everything was fine again. Halloween, I found a cache of love letters in his truck – It wouldn't start, I was only looking for the manual -- Some bimbo from Hawaii, She'd quit her job and was on a plane, Coming to meet him in the Keys. He'd planned it all by phone. But that very night he comes in, flowers, wine, Says, "I've decided to give you a try." I just didn't mention the letters. Pretty cool of me, don't you think? I knew everything was going to be just fine. I've never looked better in my life. I'm fit, tough; he says I'm 'trim.' We both love sailing – I don't care If he lives on his ketch all summer. I'd live on it with him if he asked me. But all he says is, "I need my space. I need time alone. I like to sleep by myself. My back hurts. My knees hurt." But I can fit in the berth with him. Everything would be fine if we were together. I gave him a mug with a mermaid on it first. Found it in one of those charming old seaside shops. Then I picked out the perfect print for his cabin. Then I gave him a sink for his bathroom – I thought he needed it. He said it was nice, really. Id give him small stuff, anything I came across If I thought heed like it, Because everything was going just fine. He set up his TV set in my bedroom, Got his bed out of storage and moved that in, too. Got so heed come around for dinner, Then end up staying for breakfast; Get himself a treat, roll over and go to sleep. TV, bed – I mean, that stuff is permanent, right? But he insists he lives on his boat, Keeps his clothes in the trunk of his car, Cell phone always on, So its fine if I call him. Everybody calls him. I tried to pretend it didn't matter When he skipped out over Thanksgiving – after all, He had bought me dinner on my birthday last month. I told myself that he wasn't with anyone else When he wasn't with me, Even though I donut get any treats anymore. Look, he yells at me only if I do something wrong When were sailing, but I guess he knows What should be done, when, how, all that – its his boat… Hess a guy – he stopped paying me compliments, Never tells me I look nice anymore, But he doesn't say mean things every day. Its fine – he doesn't have to say stuff all the time. Tonight, he casually announces he and his buddy Ed are leaving, Sailing December 23rd and coming back sometime in January. Just great! There goes Christmas and New Year's Eve. He owes me, damn it! A year and a half. All those gifts. Cooking. Computer. Services. Why'd he move his TV set in if he was going to leave? I don't understand. I thought it was all going so well – I'm never going to find anybody like him. I'm never going to find anybody else. We have so much in common! I don't understand it - I mean, you know, I thought everything was fine.

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:125

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2001 (Margy's Monologue, cont.)
Stumbling into the millennium, tripping on reality: My New Year resolves itself into catastrophic new horrors. There I am, at my own computer, and things new to my eyes Start waving at me: pornography, perverts in "chat" rooms, Aliases for a predator, and it's his typing. All day, while I'm earning our keep, he's keeping busy Virtually … I can't even tell you … it's disgusting. Sailing after sucking whirlpools, tacking along dirty keystrokes, Fishing and trolling for any scum available, typing with one hand… Nothing will ever be fine again, not with him. I want to sail – he wants to type "I love you" into the ether. I love to sail – he says "there's no one on the other end typing back." I crave the water and sun – he's sneaking off into some virtual 'scene.' I slept with him in the aft cabin – he's got an "aft cabin' chat room. I love the water – he loves the slime, the dirt, the anonymous …. He threatens to go and never come back. You know, I could live with that. I could live without him. I'm living without him now – unless he wants something from me. Yes, it could be fine to be without him. Yes, I would be fine.

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:125

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JEAN HULL HERMAN : Margy's Monologue: Everything's Fine

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