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.