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.
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