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.