fast like tape

holiday shopping makes my heart rate soar, my throat clench, and my mouth dry. I am pretty sure this qualifies as a panic attack. I am shopping for people I have never, ever met. Okay the lines and the carols and the incessant beep of the scanners has worn me down. I have never done "chirstmas" before. Ideally I would spend the next six days recuperating from the trauma of this morning. Alas it is time to meet the strangers.
How do people do this year after year? and for heaven's sake, why?

puddles

Rain is a northwesterner thing. "I love the rain, I'm an Oregonian," I say for the 37th day in a row. Rain and trees and Gortex are what make us Oregonians and, to dislike any of those would be down right uncivil. On a darker note we have exactly nine hours of daylight, but who's counting? Winter is time for sleep; my schedule of classes and work muck up my natural inclination to sleep with the sun.
Did you know I have a second life as a fish? my new PR is 31:23 for a mile. That's down 3:35 from earlier in the term. I am hoping that with some serious dedication and a little bit of oomph I can break the thirty minute marker in a few months. I know you're gripping your seat in anticipation; don't worry, I'll let you know.
Being an athlete has been the biggest challenge for me. It is hard to keep swimming when the pool turns into lukewarm Jell-O. I used to quit, but not anymore. Now I keep going. My arms windmill and my legs they keep churning. Stroking and breathing and kicking and gliding across the pool, I look fast in my new suit.

parrallelism

Days are succinct, flowing quickly from one to the next. What strikes is the momentum of a thought: this is time, passing. Then it's gone. Dreams linger into the morning, colorful nodes of my pure logic. Life is fair, just, sacred. Life hasn't got a remedy, save to live and more if possible. I suppose it is the fear of crossing the shadow to happiness that keeps us from it. The unknown's shadow, too, is lurking a day beyond tomorrow. This moment should be different or, I more in control. Is life ever completely in or out of control? no, it just sort-of-is. I think that is the most difficult fig to savor. I can accept that life is in or out of my hands; to accept the polarity of assertiveness and flexibility is formidable.
If I could linger a moment longer in my tensions I would crack. These tensions, they have a purpose. To remind me I am alive. I know I am alive, because I feel the tightening screw in my chest cavity. A better way to feel is to be active. If I chose to be active, then my life is full and my chest is loose. I breathe deeply and feel even the tops of my lungs expand. I experiment and bring in as much air as possible, then pause, and take in more small sips until no more air fits. I move the air around my lungs; lungs are not balloons, that is a misnomer. Lungs are spongy. The air filters into my blood and my organs work. I breathe deeply and force my lungs to aerate: this breath is life.

oh friend

linger- sister-
breathing wind and oh the wind
boughs reach, ahh pleiades
if love could hold

ease this-
no desire, comfort
eiderdown nest-
oh memories are weak

no charm holds
oh desire, it is you
whipping the moon-
linger sister

words

People are the topics of books. This is not to say that people are interesting. The majority of people with whom I come into contact with, adjunct professors at community college and the various rowdies which naturally congregate in such arenas, are as interesting as old sticks. Which is not to say that they do not conceive of themselves on a daily basis. I am sure they do. I can just see them sitting around self-actualizing. This process does little for their rapidly receding hair lines or the expansion of their waistlines.

All of this is to say that I prefer books to people, even loud, bookish people. I abhor the self proclaimed "bibliophile". The throaty voice of a hundred favorite books and three favorite authors makes one a dabbler. A bibliophile is a collector, not a reader. The same as an adjunct is not a professor.

Time for me to get back to my book.

The Divide:

Communication is perhaps an insurmountbale peak. Sometimes speaking with a man is compreable reading Emerson. Short, pithy statements fall from their lips: "I am an eyeball." And, left to wonder at the meaning of this remark, we women think: well, you certainly aren't an ear.

Silence in my ear
Hot and salty eyelashes
Reverberating

mirror

Walking in a brisk october afternoon, the buildings rise around me. The sky hides behind brick and steel. I arrived in Paris yesterday, the airline lost one of my cases. I am left wearing an ill-fitting pair of crocodile flats. My right heal has a blister the size of a dime, which tore. I curse airlines and the irregularities of Paris's streets. The maze of Rues and Boulevards meet at democratic angles. I live at 46 rue du Montparnasse. Which in glory years meant cafés and artists; now I am stuck with the only skyscraper in all of Paris. The Gare is confounding, because it stands singular in the sky. I find it impossible to use it as a landmark; it looks identical from every side.
The blister on foot burns. I stop in one of the identical cafés and have myself a tiny coffee. I put in cream and a tube or two of sugar, smoking a couple of cigarettes before I leave. On the way home, I make a point of buying wine. I am at an impasse. My lost luggage has my cork and my teeth are inadequate for such antics. The bonhomme was kind enough to appreciate my delicate situation. He corked the bottle for me, and told me to come in the morning for fresh pan. This is my idea of a neighborhood grocer. I have wine, soup, and cheese for dinner. Sleep comes quickly and smells of the boulangerie downstairs.

Relief?

I must admit relief. Dems. take the House and Senate; Bush declares marshal law...

The flood I was hoping for came in a different form. The river is receding and the roads are being shoveled. School has not been canceled.

Words and emotions are clogging my esophagus. At this point, I have given my emotions characters in the saga of my semi-comic existence. Today they are folk dancing in wooden shoes.

Perfection is one of those ten-lettered words that gets to me. I cannot concede that I am the only female who is constantly in a battle. Women are less prone to corruption- only if there aren't chocolate cupcakes involved. Our battles are more silent types. I reflect on my lack the lack of fulfillment in my daily life. Perhaps I am trying to do too much. Be smart, but if I could be smart in a more analytical way, that would really be more convenient. Be driven to succeed, but don't succeed so much that it would take me away from a hypothetical family. Be committed and reasonable. What am I supposed to be committed to: a loose promise; my dreams; my fatality? and please not forget to be beautiful, flexible, serene, nurturing, artistically inclined.

This is, perhaps, my didactic rant or it is the elephant that won't stop following me around.

concentric circles:

Sitting in my rainbox house, I hope for a flood. Watching the water rise, rivers choked with detritus, standing and waiting. There was a small earthquake last night. I am not in charge of any of this: no one is. I drove slowly down 217, my new wiper-blades throwing water impressively off my windshield. I read my future in the leaves that clog gutters. I sat in my car this afternoon. The heat from my drive lingers after I turn off the ignition. The rain is loud in that box; I sleep.

I am back on books. They are my drug of choice. Time is lost between their leaves— sated.

three-car pile-up

Days, weeks almost, go by and I rarely see the light of day from the four walls of my home. It's vaguely depressing. AM's are spent eating a hurried bowl of instant oatmeal and finding socks. I get home at a decent hour, 7is, but I am so tired I usually am sleeping within the hour. By home I don't mean any of those. I mean home and doing the things I love: cleaning the floor or making my bed. Seriously, the state of my house...
I believe that if I spent more waking time here, I would be more grounded. But, there are only so many hours in a day, week, year. Sleep and wake and dream are tangled together in the sheets of my unmade bed.

Life's Kitchen

I am the only person in the lower 48 who is unable to get a credit
card? It seems that I am. I am not only smarting from this injustice, I am enraged at the new system of price differentiation for credit worthy people. Congress is discussing whether or not it is legal for insurance companies to check your rating before issuing coverage. Because, poor f*cks don't deserve health care.

issue two: I don't get advertised prices on cellphones and plans. Those are for "credit worthy" people. You know, the kind of people who haven't done the bad things I've done. Things like buy a vehicle and make monthly payments for three years. The fact that in the last two years, I have never once had a late phone payment is little assurance to this company. They don't want poor people to have cool phones; it's bad for their image.

F*ck all of them. Companies are not people.
They do not have emotions and are not singling me out; it just feels that way. Thanks 14Th amendment! Corporate person-hood is TOPS!

The ranting has left me flustered and wretched. The record player is broken. Well, this one's a total bitch and I am so tired of feeling w*rthless for my lack of lasting stability. I could cry, but where does that leave me? with a basket full of tissues and a red nose. Who am I to disparage life's offerings. They are not meager. Funny, how things make worth and worth is an estimable quality. Naturally I recognize the fallibility of material satisfaction. Recognition does not stop me from wanting or in some cases, needing.

I relate the tightness in my throat to the unfairness I felt as a girl. I learned, very young, to never ask for anything. Not because I couldn't have it, which was true. Because, in voicing the unfairness of not being able to get a pair of jeans, I would have to face the reality without the dream. This brings it all back. I still feel my worth based, judged, mirrored, by my economic power. This is such a long standing and corrosive field that I best not tread on it.

This is the nature of the world and I cannot understand why the world continues to reject me. It is being unable to meet a standard; I do not pass the bar. It is a constant test to my resilience and vulnerability. Neither of which are feeling up to the constant barrage of insults heaped upon me by non-people: machines that cannot feel but instead think.

lesson 37

The road to hell is a casket of cherries.

bondo

I have a hard time sleeping. It eludes me, an orchid that won't bloom.

Today. Today was bound to happen sooner or later. It started off a little off.
Typically, I get woken up. And today I didn't. After getting out bed, I
rubbed my eye and found some clothes. I was mad: it's not fair to
change the rules on someone without telling them. I recovered.

I swim, lap after lap. The pool, in the morning, is full of sunlight. I swam particularly well today. During my final lap— the: "ohh I think I'll do one more" lap— I broke my watch. My father's watch. Broke and can't fix and won't ever
get to wear it again. I have been missing him so much. When someone
dies they are gone. I know that sound simplistic, it is. I never knew I
had a place, shaped just like my father, in my chest. Now, it just sits
there, empty. There is nothing fair about who death chooses. But there
are times I wish I could cry and not feel guilty, weird, alone. It
doesn't matter if their mine, yours or anyone elses: emotions,
for most, are too much. Especially a raw grief. I don't want to be
comforted, there is none. Just finding the space to be with people who
understand the inexplicable rock in my gut, fire in my throat, salt in
my nose. Mementos are just that, reminders. A photo of
a whale will never impress upon me the majesty of the creature. Being
in a boat and watching it's body lift from the depths, will.

Better now

rustic

Things that don't age well:

Gloating over other people is not nice. But it's fun. When I see a person who broke my heart ten years ago, fat old and married, I can't help but laugh, relieved.

The Internet makes the world into a huge pocket. There is so much information about so many people, a finger tap away. Not me, however. It seems I have done very little of note. I like my solitude and dislike interruptions: mon plume-de-nom me cache.

I was nicely wrapped in my many blankets last night, when my phone rang. No I don't want to go drink beer, I need sleep; it was 7:45. Much later, deep into the early hours of dawn, I woke. The air had changed, it was thick and fresh, I heard an owl. I fell back to sleep and missed my alarm.

The world, so fast and full and I contribute by needing to be places. I left late for school (above mentioned missed alarm), missing my first class. The perennial headache behind my right eye, a reminder to get glasses. I hope glasses are all I need. I have been losing hair in handfuls. I become paranoid. I fear I am sick sick sick. The sleep, the hair, the headaches, all contribute to a sense of panic. I attribute all of it to stress, the need to be someplace seven minutes ago. The racing heart is from the caffeine. The headaches are from dehydration, it's so hard to drink fluids when it's raining. Push harder, swim upstream, and don't ever get sick. That's a crap mantra and I will get sick if I damn well please.

pacing

I fought a good fight, and I won.

My financial-aid has been reinstated. Who knew I could find esteem in an envelope? Though interestingly enough, as of yesterday, I had
abandoned hope in either direction. I came to a place where I could no
longer see which outcome was better. Both were good; both were bad.
Being in this opportunity took time, the kind words of my family. I found a place of surrender outside of the structure of my day to day.

Most difficult part was continuing to attend my classes. Doing hours of homework amidst such uncertainty was exacerbating. Assuming that I would be awarded the aid,
I was diligent in my studies. Having received the news, I am glad I remained focused.
Irony could have prevailed: if I would have assumed failure; been
awarded aid; and ultimately failed because of falling behind early in the quarter.

The contentment that comes from letting go of any notion of the right,
good, best way, is enormous. There are six billion ways to make a bed.
I am relieved not to have to change my path, but had I, the adventure
would have been welcome.

velcro

Fragile little wings of life
Unison, unison, we beat in unison--

Officially I am a failure. I am incapable of attending a damned community college. Ham sandwiches all around, with weak coffee to wash down their concrete system. Ahh, well, September.

It is now time for me to refigure my life, goals, dreams; retire my downfall. I don't know how I'm supposed to get through this with any grace. Sick of dreams and my failure, these tears are pathetic. I need a break! Curses, my skin is crawling! My heart twists and my stomach wants to disgorge itself. It just doesn't stop, this awkward life. I'll take it; my dimensional perspective of existence: is this life?

Time to incorporate my heart with my mind, I tell myself firmly, today's the day. But it's not, wait until tomorrow. That's the minuteman's lie I have been believing for years. Life is finite. F*ck, I know this bodily existence can hurt. Happiness is not one of those purchases that comes with easy-read instructions. I am not certain if it even comes in a box.

When I focus in, deep and to my core, I have joy. Why then am I afraid of reaching for it? Am I become a coward? No, happiness takes fearless courage. My college doesn't offer a course in finding the courage to be happy. I don't need one. I need honesty and support. My first step is into the unknown. So is the next and the next.

That which holds me apart from my true nature is the unknown. The unknown is both a place of possibility and of chaos. It's dichotomy is confounding. How can something be both infinite and exact? Being vunerable and not knowing what comes next is code for existance in the plane of human experience.

Looking honestly at my life, I tend only to see the first layer. The day to day existence and routine. I see my mistakes and resentments. Those few activities take most of my concentration. Concentration equals energy. I use my limited energy doing things which do not bring happiness. Knowing this why do I continue to do them? The status quo and the reality that I am not getting any younger. The pressure to perform in society and to be part of a machine. The fear that if I don't do this a vacuum will come along and suck me into outer space.

I can affirm that I am having a difficult time. Realistically, all of the signals are the universal mind telling me to stop. I am removing the layers and am preparing to go in deep. Here is the first step into the unknown, bringing me one pace closer to joy. Wish me luck and love, I will send greatings from the other side.

depraved

Even the connotation is based in madness.

There are times I believe there is a hole in my skull or heart; is there an effervescent structure amiss? I have no solid conclusions such a state of unbeing. Recognise the eyes I use to see are sequentially limited. I question my role: a limiter, existence is limited. The natural unstate. I do long division in my head, staring out across the haze, the horizon. Minutes pass, forty minutes. I proceed to class, I am an hour early, which leaves time for more numbers. Weary of numbers I progress to words. Words make promises. Words shape pictures across the red of my eyelids. Faster and more demanding, they thrash my eardrums. The cacophony stops more abruptly than it started.

Much later I push my voice up into a false tempo. Everything is just fine, my voice clips along. Astride my mind, I hunt for clues. It is a long and lonely night. My external and internal caress with lover's finesse. Nude I am left to witness their molestation.

a darker shade of gray:

September is the ides of March and April's fools all rolled into one long month of practical and impractical jokes. The last was losing my wallet. Which might have been a good thing 'cause I'm broke and the sun don't shine where I'm going.

School is a place where a lot of people look (no one speaks) at me. I am uncertain if this is because I have some large leafy foliage in my teeth or another less obvious reason. The days are dazzlingly airy. I put my sweaters away, sadly. I can't even wear a coat. People stand around talking, giving one another knowing looks.

Tons of people smoke tons of ciggies. Not me and not the French. Turns out they're trying to pass an anti-smoking law similar to New York and California... We here in good ol' Oregon with all our fresh air can smoke till the sky turns red.

Typical that France, emblematic of smokers and futurism and maniacal elitism, would ban their favorite hobby

rasp

A wet woolen sweater--

Two years ago today my life changed. This morning my mail declared that I am disqualified for financial aid. This is worse than bad and needs fixing. I have been having one of those months. My car exploded, I had to borrow the cash to fix it. Cash that I would repay on good faith of student loans. Those same loans that I now might not receive. Looks like internet porn (sic) is my last resort. This is one of those days, months. I am not fond of September and wish it would be over; it hurts like hell and back again.

But, as they say, cowboy up girl, cowboy up. And I will. I'll pull on my boots and fill out the forms. I will talk to important people and use decisive words. OR I'll say f*ck all of this and quit everything. That seems good right about now. No more children of miserable bosses asking me about the mating habits of marsupials. No more making less than $700 in a month. Instead I'll say kiss it! and start working a decent job with low morals and a high wage. By low, I mean pulling coffee and writing erotica for online magazines.

Why, I ask, am I doing all of this? Did I really suppose that I could better myself and have a decent, respectable future? Was that the point, or was it just something to do? Now that I am doing other things more fulfilling... There are allot of questions going through my brain. I am severely distraught and angry at the bottom of it. I dealt with this problem a month ago. I filled out the paper work, both the white and yellow sheets, and was not expecting this blow. Not today, today hurt enough without that.

mercury

poison leaks in like noise.

I polished my table this morning, changed the sheets on my bed, did a couple of crosswords. It was a practical and useful morning. In developing a new routine, I fail to remember all of it's components. Then, around one or two, I slap my head: "expletive!"

My house is a haven. The breezy rooms are filled with light and Chet Baker, a handsome man with an ear for vision. Chet was big in a Paris that no longer exists. Time, September, patterns, the details, have been showing up in my dreams. Paris was the end of my descent; I hit bottom. September has a way of doing this, showing me exactly where I was two, five years ago. Five: I was fresh and young on my way to Seattle. Two: my father was dying and I was on my way to Paris. Now: now.

Days and years and seconds passed for this moment to become and to fade.

a sandwhich without bread

Black heels, red lipstick, dark denim jeans, I am all set to clean my house top to bottom. But I won't. Instead I'll sit right here, and romanticize along with Ella Fitzgerald. The moon is a fraction from full, I am home and alone. For the last ten days I have been sharing houses with my mother, Lynn. Last night my house was empty, except for the wind and my cat and me. My heart thundered more than once. I woke up sure that the shadows cast on the west wall were shed from a ring of dancing women. They were preparing for a ritual I was not invited to. Wisely, I went back to sleep. Those women wouldn't stop dancing; they took a lock of my hair.

My return to solitude has been jarring. I am not lonely, but amazed that I can be so noisy in my quiet. The radio and the shower and the windows and the cat and the internet are all streaming simultaneously. I flitz around poking things and sorting mail I'll open tomorrow. I read a thick magazine (which one is irrelevant as they are all filled with identical trifles). I am back and my lips are red.

I recognize patterns of desire. I want juxtapositions: to be entertained and entertain; a solitary life, with heady doses of company. I swing less across the extreme diastema. I sink my teeth into the prose of my life, filling the gaps.

domain

The coastal climate rips across the sky; my mind ruptures, and I listen to the rain. I could do this: live here in a multitude of silences. Walking along windswept passages, I imagine a life I one day inhabit. Storms and fireplaces define the nights. Collecting bits of flotsam spit up from the depths of the ocean in the early dawn. Wind and salt age my face, especially around my eyes. I don't mind; my hands are stronger than ever and know their place. I carry a backpack, it is full-- rubish I will shape anew. Me, I see myself reborn with the tide. A shadow rising into being, manifest.

There is hot chocolate or spiced wine served with hot bread. The warmth that comes when it is too cold to be alone, out-of-doors. Settling in to a book and a blanket, the stars hide just beyond the Hemlock. With any luck friends come and we walk until our fingers are red and chapped, holding hands making our way home. Cinnamon and sage impregnate the small wooden house with a warm spice.

Time and fortune seem weak obstacles for so vivid a dream. My heart thunders in my ear, I am not alone. I court my solitude and I sleep and I dream. Crisp air blows through my room of windows. The ocean roars hypnotically, the rain incessant, I check the clock. Half past three, a dead hour. I stand, unclad in the deluge.

proximity

I am to spend the next 144 hours with my mother. After the 36 already spent together, that is a total of 180. That's a long time.

The push-me pull-you has been sticking it's evil jaws into my arms. A day in the life of a piece of gum. Starting out fresh and in it's foil, only to end up on my shoe— or worse my hair. People leave their ABC gum stuck any-ol-place; I lean back and a thick glob of nasty, sticky spit drenched gum fuses behind my left ear. I whip open my switchblade and cut the lock out. I have curly hair, the missing chunk is noticeable only in that it sticks out from my head at a right angle.

The real kicker comes when the person who left their gum stuck to the back of (my) dining room chair shirks responsibility. "You said that you were not going to be back for a couple of hours. I figured that I could just let the flavor freshen up for a few, and then really get to business". You see they are an aficionado, a real gum connoisseur. It is their duty to not only test, but keep accurate records of a variety of flavors over a period of time. "But,' I stammer almost helpless to this concrete logic, 'it's my chair, and why the f*ck are you even in my house?"

escribir

I read. I read everything, a box of cereal or a license plate is of no less worth than my newest pursuit. I am in awe of the modern novel. This is new, they are new. The hot flush of a well formulated sentence. I am hooked, my eyes are giving way and I am getting less sleep, but I just can't seem to stop until the last page. Books and lovers are cousins.

My teeth hurt I am so poor. I visit the public library, with a stack of books up to my chin and one tucked beneath my elbow I approach the front desk. I live in fear of the librarian. She looks over my books and, rarely, comments on them. It's those few words that destroy my esteem. I deflate as she looks over the assortment of thick books of photos, glances over the graphic novel, and alights on something by Christopher Pike. Yep, Christopher Pike. Cocking an eyebrow she looks at me, I smile through my teeth. Stammering something about rereading everything I have ever read, I grab my ten pounds of entertainment and flee. That's a half truth.

I am trying to decide what makes a book memorable. What, after ten years, will make me pick up a book and read it again. The answer is usually sex. I know: more women read; women are verbal; typically, best-selling books are written by men. Bam, add steamy sex and the formulaic teen novel has progressed to chic-lit. These books are trash and can be read in less than a day.

The next time the Librarian looks my at my stack, I will be proud. Noting the progression of my carnal devotion to the written word, she will sneak one of her favorites to the middle of my pile. I will give her my observations on the characterization of the american protagonist. She will take off her glasses, look me in the eye and say: I was thinking exactly the same thing".

So it Seems:

That I am the kind of woman who gets a book given to her in a bar. (That might have been because I was reading.) However, why men love bitches,seems pendandtic. Admitedly, I have a tendency to be kind and forgiving. But a book in a bar— am I that obvisious?

Aside from that life continues to persue it's course. Breifly, I scan faces I do not recognize. I take in posters and Coroner. The music is good, the posters worse. This event is not about an occurence. It is about agility.

That is a masked truth. I wanted to see if I was capable of having a drink alone. I still am. It's not difficult; for five bucks one can sit in a bar unmolested. Nothing but faces have changed. I leave by the front door, doubting if I'll back.

Glamour has been replaced. Flash:.. so mad, I got home and realized that the shit I bought off the street was crap. I thought it was M—, but he said he stayed home last night. I would cut my wrists if it weren't for my friends. Such a load of crap. Glamour is dirty and people are worse.

Thread

It takes a long time to knit a sweater. Longer if it there is a hole that is comming undone.

My fingers are poised and ready for action. They sit still, hovering. Like someone reading the newspaper over my shoulder, they annoy me. Capable, strong fingers. I look at their dexterious strength. Didgits, ten of them. Knuckles and oposable thumbs, my hands are in motion. My mind too. It flits across the horizen of broken conversations. Life, it seems, is a melodrama. In and out of lies, my eyes pretend to read while my ears traverse the room. That's that.
Arguing with a six year old is futile. Especially if it's not yours. Today, I almost cried when the four year old told me he hadn't invited me to his birthday party. I guess we're not such good friends. Here is the striking point, one should not be hurt by other's actions. Sadly I must admit that I am repeatedly stung by the reprimand of a careless tounge. I have been told that I have thin skin, am overly sensitive, take things personally. How else am I to take something? WTF is the matter with being sensitive?
Yes, I see that in extreme cases it could come as a fault. One should never cry over the computerized voice at AT&T. "Why does she keep asking me the same questions? I'm not that thick. Stop talking to me!" I yell, flinging my phone into the washing machine. This action has not one, but two flaws. The first being a ruined phone. The second being placed at the beginning of the que (after replacing cette phone).

repast

The morning comes on fast. I shower: my arms itch. I have a routine. I crack my eyes and make a few monster noises to usher in the day. I get up and open the front door. Light and air chase away any lingering whispers of sleep. I start my coffee, which is a ritual unto itself. I shower while it percolates. I turn on the radio, and if it's not too depressing I listen to NPR. Some days are too lovely to ruin with thoughts of Iraq, Israel, Airplanes, Hezbollah, and Bush's Politics, I listen to an Opera.

Today is an Opera day. Mozart rings through the open rooms of my small house. A light wind bushes my bare flesh, it is late summer. I have a terrible feeling that this country does not support people in their quest to discover pleasure. To live with no joy or celebration of life. What a shame. Pleasure can be had in minutiae. A ripe mango piled on a platter. The deep orange of the fruit brilliant against the deep cobalt of antique porcelain. It is sunset I eat in the morning.

frit

Frit: a verb combining fray and knit.

This is the mill, the waterwheel that —just— wont stop.

Back to a time before now. There were moments of glamor, safety in numbers. Daring solo missions in skirts too short and heels too high. Nights of desperation led by a burning desire. Just as easily it was loneliness. Fade, the future is flat. Stolen moments in alleys, bathrooms, taxicabs. Long nights, no lines for a girl like me. A quick smile and sharp tongue get more attention than cash. My drink in a tall glass, a lit cigarette burning untouched in the ashtray, an open book in my hand: I read. No pretense here, just a solitary girl a long way from home. The night would grow long in shadow. Walking, I count the stars and listen to their music.

In a time before now the world's pulse lulled me to sleep— if sleep ever came. Now, I am restless far into the night. I hear the roar of engines and the wail of sirens, my bed is cold and long and empty. I stand above it and watch my animal sleep. I pace and my fingers tick, twitching to the pulse. I put it all away. That life is stored in boxes. That life committed suicide.

Jump to now. I struggle in this life. I go to school. I work. I eat and drink and fuck. I listen to birds. The surprise is the contentment. It is not dull. It is not glamorous. This now is potent and potential leaks in from it's seams. I find myself wanting more from life then ever before. Life won't budge an inch. While defining the terms of my existence, the ducks and chickens go about their business. Business is fast becoming my operative word.

This was a lesson in frit.

double sided sticky tape

There is something I have forgotten. My fingers trace deja-vu in the air. The quarter madness has abated, for now. I am left to dry of the line: a pair of well worn jeans. And, like old jeans, I am unable to give the torment to goodwill. The years of companionship turn the act into a betrayal. I wear jeans till loose strings get stuck in the spokes of my bicycle. I crash, skin my knees and toss the bloody rags into the incinerator. The duplicity of this act is not lost on me.

Standing up, fingers of sherbet clouds lick the horizon, sunset. Venus shines, I know it's a planet, I wish anyway. As I wish my heart beats hot blood through my veins, pulling it through arteries. Thump da-dum. Praying for humanity and a bowl of rice, I start the long walk home. Light filters through the treetops. It fades and eyes once again my eyes adjust to darkness. Darkness never bothers me, I eat plenty of carrots.

I also feed carrots to Idesia, a horse and my friend. She, unlike the cat, would make a terrible muff (I think a rug would be more suitable). Being back in the saddle was difficult. I felt gangly as a twelve year-old. My elbows would fly, my knees and feet slapping rhythmically against the mare's side. That by no means is proper equitation. My body is coming under control. My leg muscles are strengthening considerably, my eyes are open and observant; I have acquired the flow of dialog.

venison

I am raw. Tears tremble just below my surface. They threaten, and being honorable, make good on their word, to journey down towards the tip of my nose. Today, I let them flow, wash my face. I pinch the skin around my eyes to reduce the swelling and squeeze my cheeks to enhance their color.

I got a letter in the mail. From a friend, it was written in pen, on college lined paper. The envelope was slightly battered, but not taped shut. The character of the letter was forthright, honest, just like my friend. Sadly, I am not in a state to receive kind words that praise my character. Laying in the grass, I watered my lawn with three tears.

One of those weeks where a month and a day bully their way in. I am trying to gain the aptitude to tell bossy people to back the f*ck off. As a non-confirmed pacifist I have a difficult time in addressing situations which have the potential to lead to emotional scars. Unless the scars are mine. I have 37 of those.

On a much lighter note (not me by any means), I have returned to good standing with the financial aid office. As any poor student can attest, there is nothing like 3G's to help mollify the woes of upper education.

perma-fast

The perma-fast is the diet for the not quite anorexic. The details are a bit vague as my memory has become hazy. Mostly, it involves water in large quantities— to flush toxins and waste from the system— and fruit. The key to success is not eating before five, that way the body never begins the digestive process. The first day is the most difficult. It is like quitting smoking. Mimicking the bodies craving for nicotine, day one on the perma-fast leaves me irritable and nauseous. Thankfully, each day the symptoms decrease and I am rewarded with lighter, cleaner lungs, skin, and legs.
Perma-fast should not be tempted by the weak or faint. If light headed dizzy spells are not your thing, then settle on saddle bags. It is also important to note that, like smoking, the occasional slip up helps to remind me why I persevere. There is nothing like scorched lungs or a full stomach to motivate me eliminate indulgence. Those moments, after months of self denial, grow further apart.
There are people who can achieve the same results by less drastic measures. I am not one of them. I could go for hypnotherapy, but I might end up married, that would be bad. Or exercise, but I do that too. I despise the double standards. I push my body to extremes: the world applauds.

measure

The abbreviated silence that sits in my mind hums like a refrigerator. My cat mews, I don't like him all that much, typical. I can't seem to decide if he is endearing or simply hungry. I ignore him as I read and eat ice cream from the carton.

No man, no cat, can alter my finite decision making skills. Looking at the cat: you would make an excellent muff. Thus, solving the problem of an anti-pet code and winter fashion in one deadly blow.

This is the crux. To live unreasonably in the age of reason. To expect a return from my surroundings and those who inhabit them. I am so nullified that my thin humor washes down the tub if I shave too closely. Oh, there is light, but it is florescent and will induce headaches.

I feign a left hook. I end up out cold, but at least I got there. Two aspirin and a glass of water is all I need to get me to the shower. Once there the spray of water does the rest and the day is dawn.

remains

Let's start with the day the lies began. I was six when I discovered varied levels of truth. There is the out-and-out lie; the flat lie, used to drop an uncomfortable truth; the cover-up lie, used to divert blame. This is a sampling in the multi-vitamin of near truths.
For the sake of honesty, I am not a liar, but a hider. Closets and bathrooms have always been palaces of refuge, opposed to the communal setting of my bedroom. Years of twisted inroads have left me stranded a labyrinth of emotional refuse. After twenty odd years, I find torrents emotional repression leaking from the staunch seals of a self imposed regime. This is the crux of my difficulties. A newly seeded desire to experience a fuller spectrum of life— versus my deeply rooted need for secrecy.
All of this leaves me hostile. I am unwilling to openly address many of the layers, which I imagine hold me together. For if I did than where would I go? Closets and bathrooms would loose their power; I could easily say: 'no thank you very much". Like a parcel with wrapped in many colored papers, I savor the slow pealing back of skins. I examine each layer of paper shadow. Neatly folded, I put it in a box in the closet.

something like oranges

The thick crust of sleep cracks, painfully waking me. I was dreaming of my ex-best friend. She has amazing legs, I never told her. I keep secrets— dozens of them— in envelopes ready to mail. All I need is a stamp for a direct line to god. Though I have very little to do with god, I find mailing letters addressed: god// heaven// the universe, as close as I will get.
Knowing that the post-office has sworn an oath to deliver, I wonder: are my letters sleeping with christmas lists? This stems from a desire to relieve my mind yet maintain anonymity. Why burden a friend or lover, when for $.39 I can talk to god? The letters never come back, I use a fake address.

saga

I hear there is no time like the present. My present is full, very full; there is no time for new undertakings. My hands are shackled to the momentum of a day. I paint lists in the sky, watching my possibilities narrow. I mistrust the time. My time is too fast to be slow, yet, what I accomplish remains vague.
This is the list today: slingshot— shoot ball bearings across my backyard; take pictures of that old building— 35mm black and white, and those track's under the over pass; race for the cure— join a team. The list goes on, along time. Too long. It includes books and events, actions, people, animals, the universe and comsidering the possibility of there being no gods.
In there being so much to fathom and do, I find pleasure in mowing the lawn. This is a contemplative event worth varying. For one can mow at different intervals. Once a month mowing leads to heat exhaustion and a couple of hours worth of sweat. Were as by mowing every nine to twelve days and the process is expedited by nearly two thirds. Mathematically, I have yet to decide which conserves more energy. Life, clearly, is a conundrum.
I wrestle with the best of my faculties. I am bested at this game as I am not as clever as I once thought myself to be. It is the draw of the tide and the memorization of charts: ahha, I am human. I know with most of the cells in my body that I have stepped from an age of reason to one far beyond my means. I slip in to jeans, now a size I used to dream of, and examine my profile. I don't think that satisfaction is in my vocabulary. The top of my list is the perma-fast.