in absence of being clever

The Jane Austen Book Club--a movie Hollywood has systematically ruined by tying everything up with a nice happy bow, all the loose ends are cut or tied off--a movie where amy Brenneman is beautiful because her name is Amy, because humanity and vulnerability crack her open like a raw egg, because she created a show in homage to her mother, and willingly showed softness and messiness, anything that could so easily slip through our fingers. So I am sitting here wishing I had the book about the book club in which to refer, wishing there was another ending to add to this beautifully bare portrait of women and life and relationships. I am dreaming about a boy I will never have because he no longer exists, he may never have existed. He's like a stone I rub for good luck, so worn I can no longer tell what drew me to it in the first place, I only know my fingertips miss its touch--like a habit, a figment of my imagination. so perhaps I will meet a girl, perhaps I will find a swedish looking coat-sweater to wrap myself in at night, perhaps I will grow out my hair and trail it down a castle wall like rapunzel. perhaps I will sleep well and dream of new york city in the snow, and a white down comforter to chase away the mean reds like Tiffany's and Audrey on a hot summer day the morning after a gorgeous party. perhpas, perhaps, perhaps.