Can something broken be repaired or only mended?
Broken bottles, broken plates,
Broken switches, broken gates,
Broken dishes, broken parts,
Streets are filled with broken hearts.
Broken words never meant to be spoken,
Everything is broken.
The scene was dinner time on St. Patrick’s Day at Iron Barley Eating Establishment in South City, way south. There was no green beer to be had, thank g-d. The fare was surprisingly delightful, informal, unpretentious, and hearty. I’d go there again and again under different circumstances and I recommend it highly. See the recent Sauce Magazine review (aren’t you glad I didn’t refer you to a RFT restaurant review?) for the lowdown.
I was coveting a certain kind of nourishment other than dinner. A kind of nourishment that my dinner companions provided but that I find harder and harder to obtain. The fact that my companions choose to associate with one another is peculiar to begin with. Elements of the familiar are present yet the newness still hasn’t completely worn off for me. It plays like a scene from a movie or someone else’s life in my head. You see, this month marks the two year anniversary of the culmination of what was probably the worst time of my adult life, the assault to my identity of me, the breaking of the façade, my façade. You may ask if it was all really that dramatic. I would say yes, most definitely, one’s own drama always outweighs tragedies of even Shakespearean proportions. Does the fact that it’s the same time of year give me the right to relive it; to feel sad about it; to mourn the losses again? No, not really. We’re all guilty of a little self indulgence every now and then though. I’m always my own worst critic. I’m literally a fraction of the person, in a good way, that I was two years ago and I’ve conquered some very lethal addictions. I still need the approval of my dinner companions though. I thrive on the sense of validation it affords me. It occurs to me that it’s the exact right time to strip them of that kind of power that they may or may not even know they have. Mental note at dinner…work on that. So I forced a smile for the night and tried to appreciate it for what it was, just dinner. I did what I do best. I ordered a really decadent dessert (which is now one of my all time favorite St. Louis restaurant desserts) and made that my focus for the rest of the evening.
Broken cutters, broken saws,
Broken buckles, broken laws,
Broken bodies, broken bones,
Broken voices on broken phones.
Take a deep breath, feel like you're chokin',
Everything is broken.
Broken switches, broken gates,
Broken dishes, broken parts,
Streets are filled with broken hearts.
Broken words never meant to be spoken,
Everything is broken.
The scene was dinner time on St. Patrick’s Day at Iron Barley Eating Establishment in South City, way south. There was no green beer to be had, thank g-d. The fare was surprisingly delightful, informal, unpretentious, and hearty. I’d go there again and again under different circumstances and I recommend it highly. See the recent Sauce Magazine review (aren’t you glad I didn’t refer you to a RFT restaurant review?) for the lowdown.
I was coveting a certain kind of nourishment other than dinner. A kind of nourishment that my dinner companions provided but that I find harder and harder to obtain. The fact that my companions choose to associate with one another is peculiar to begin with. Elements of the familiar are present yet the newness still hasn’t completely worn off for me. It plays like a scene from a movie or someone else’s life in my head. You see, this month marks the two year anniversary of the culmination of what was probably the worst time of my adult life, the assault to my identity of me, the breaking of the façade, my façade. You may ask if it was all really that dramatic. I would say yes, most definitely, one’s own drama always outweighs tragedies of even Shakespearean proportions. Does the fact that it’s the same time of year give me the right to relive it; to feel sad about it; to mourn the losses again? No, not really. We’re all guilty of a little self indulgence every now and then though. I’m always my own worst critic. I’m literally a fraction of the person, in a good way, that I was two years ago and I’ve conquered some very lethal addictions. I still need the approval of my dinner companions though. I thrive on the sense of validation it affords me. It occurs to me that it’s the exact right time to strip them of that kind of power that they may or may not even know they have. Mental note at dinner…work on that. So I forced a smile for the night and tried to appreciate it for what it was, just dinner. I did what I do best. I ordered a really decadent dessert (which is now one of my all time favorite St. Louis restaurant desserts) and made that my focus for the rest of the evening.
Broken cutters, broken saws,
Broken buckles, broken laws,
Broken bodies, broken bones,
Broken voices on broken phones.
Take a deep breath, feel like you're chokin',
Everything is broken.
posted by Michelle at 10:51 AM
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