My eyes fill with her hands. They regard my face curiously, tracing away my lines until I feel my face a blur. My chocolate irises commiserate with her sepia skin, as the two move slow again through their ancient introduction.
"Will you write me down?" she asks me with quiet interest. I tell her hands yes, that I will write about this--but no, I will not write about her. "I miss being strong," she tells me, leaning down to give me her lips.
We go on, reaching out to bliss & contrition, but really it ended there.
The next morning she leaves without waking me, but to be fair I had lay in her bed for fifteen minutes without squinting an eye, listening to her lingering departure. When she goes, I roll lithely from the mattress and stand naked in her kitchen, making myself half a pot of her Columbian without a sense of guilt or regret to temper my actions. I sit at her bright chestnut table sipping for almost forty minutes, distracted by nothing else, and afterward, take care to rinse the mug I had used. As I leave through her large oak-black front door, seen for the first time during the brief darkness of the evening before, I can't imagine entering through it again.
If you're already feeling sorry for me--even if your pity's unrealistically self-directed--then you've misinterpreted the string of the story that I'm telling you. It's true that my solitude is not all I've hoped for this life, but when I delve into it I do so in a peace offering to every person that I love, and who has been handed the misfortune of loving me in return. It's the very best I have to give to them.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Ciarra
"Don't you remember why?" She didn't speak it aloud to anyone, because nobody was there with her. She wrote it down instead.
"What did her reasoning look like? Would she even remember now?" The words kept her awake that night, and not for their lack of an answer.
(Writing is so hard! when you still can't say, 'Fuck the words; I want a story.')
Simmer down, love. And uncoil. It's okay that you're waiting for something that you don't know how to expect. It's okay if it doesn't even come tonight. Loose your patience again, let it linger here. Do you still feel the ache of your arms? The depth of the cold to your feet? You do. They are just momentarily yours, remember?
Your stomach thinks it's hungry most of the time now, and you can hear your dog-heart snoring. When the second-hand ticking...pauses, the rain outside sounds alone, so that it ticks just as often as it does not. Of course its/the whole feeling of company is pretend.
Why do we dwell on loneliness? Why do we delve into it and reach for ghastly immersion? Why can't we tell the difference between loneliness and solitude? And what the fuck is it about approval? Utterly offensive, out of place approval... When will you come back inside and recall the way you always want(ed) to breathe? ... Girl, tell me a story, will you?
"What did her reasoning look like? Would she even remember now?" The words kept her awake that night, and not for their lack of an answer.
(Writing is so hard! when you still can't say, 'Fuck the words; I want a story.')
Simmer down, love. And uncoil. It's okay that you're waiting for something that you don't know how to expect. It's okay if it doesn't even come tonight. Loose your patience again, let it linger here. Do you still feel the ache of your arms? The depth of the cold to your feet? You do. They are just momentarily yours, remember?
Your stomach thinks it's hungry most of the time now, and you can hear your dog-heart snoring. When the second-hand ticking...pauses, the rain outside sounds alone, so that it ticks just as often as it does not. Of course its/the whole feeling of company is pretend.
Why do we dwell on loneliness? Why do we delve into it and reach for ghastly immersion? Why can't we tell the difference between loneliness and solitude? And what the fuck is it about approval? Utterly offensive, out of place approval... When will you come back inside and recall the way you always want(ed) to breathe? ... Girl, tell me a story, will you?
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Janey & Ciarra
When the smile moved to me it didn't lose (any of/a bit of) its warmth. I realized that this proved she didn't recognize me (after all). No more than I had expected, I had let myself believe--I had left her when she was barely six years old, mind you. She nodded at me, paused in a way that wasn't in wait, then immediately began signing to me, evidently knowing I'd understand: Hi mom.
I'd been wrong. I had misread the smile as though to a stranger, forgetting that's all I was to her--whether or not she'd kept a picture of my former self in her head (all along,) now to draw upon after all these years. Hi daughter. I signed back, bravely testing her emotion by claiming her, having indeed/in fact not/never lost this sleight-of-hand skill of communication.
I'd been wrong. I had misread the smile as though to a stranger, forgetting that's all I was to her--whether or not she'd kept a picture of my former self in her head (all along,) now to draw upon after all these years. Hi daughter. I signed back, bravely testing her emotion by claiming her, having indeed/in fact not/never lost this sleight-of-hand skill of communication.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Indie
Her skirt rode up her thighs when she sat; she'd never worn this short before and she remained alarmingly aware of it. Sex is so boring, she thought. Or at least the mere mention of it, without the expectation of follow-through. And DISTRACTING at that, even from the possibility of actual attraction--so impossible is it to meet another person's eyes, dressed in this presumably obvious way. Just let go of the vanity, she urged herself silently, trying to focus on the jasmine breeze instead.
Just as her mind wandered to the potential of vining plants--the lovely fragrance of bougenvillia or the proud shape-color of ivy--her at last almost selfless musings were interrupted rather pleasantly: "Hey there, sweetheart." Sure, a rebellious irritation/offense struck her before anything else, but then she looked up to match the familiar face with the even more familiar voice--although entirely out of place as both or them were--and saw the only man with implicit permission to address her such.
"Dad?! Where'd you come from? What are you doing up here?"
"I took a drive. Check it out..."
He indicated at a place down the street, and she leaned over the coffeehouse railing to encounter the view: a Streamliner travel trailer--the thing he'd dreamed about simce at least as far back as she had breath in her. She 'whoooaa'-ed her delighted appreciation at the sight of his now-tangible wish, while wondering tangentially whether tea could be brewed from any sweet-smelling flower?
Just as her mind wandered to the potential of vining plants--the lovely fragrance of bougenvillia or the proud shape-color of ivy--her at last almost selfless musings were interrupted rather pleasantly: "Hey there, sweetheart." Sure, a rebellious irritation/offense struck her before anything else, but then she looked up to match the familiar face with the even more familiar voice--although entirely out of place as both or them were--and saw the only man with implicit permission to address her such.
"Dad?! Where'd you come from? What are you doing up here?"
"I took a drive. Check it out..."
He indicated at a place down the street, and she leaned over the coffeehouse railing to encounter the view: a Streamliner travel trailer--the thing he'd dreamed about simce at least as far back as she had breath in her. She 'whoooaa'-ed her delighted appreciation at the sight of his now-tangible wish, while wondering tangentially whether tea could be brewed from any sweet-smelling flower?
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Carrie
There were things she didn't understand. Occasionally she labored under the impression that this was not so, but for the most part it went unsaid in her mind and known nonetheless.
Her most recent lapse from the loop of the universe came to her through the guise of her lover. Before that it took on the countenance of a stranger, once removed. And before that there were others, as there are always others.
"Why should I pretend I'm not arrogant? The very fact of it makes a denial damn near impossible. And whatever happened to finding arrogance appealing? I'm not the one changing here. Hey, don't even give me that look. This 'changing is a good thing' stance of yours is brand-fucking new and way too convenient to be taken seriously."
Her reflection looked contrite. But as this pleased her, in the next moment it began to look smug so that she felt ridiculous but pissed off anyway. She left the mirror alone with its victory.
Restless, Carrie asked her co-worker, "Do you consider yourself influenced by the weather?" as she returned from the restroom to the cubicle that they shared.
"Sure, my umbrella's right over there," she gestured wildly at the door before waving Carrie over to her with an impatient jerk-motion of her arm. She evidently didn't notice the younger woman's dissatisfied expression as she pressed on once again about the importance of consistent returns in their line of work, not bothering to explain what they were even doing here, so irrelevant as this small detail had turned out to be. In this room, Carrie found convincing herself that she was still alive to be hardest. Unfortunately, she also spent most of her time here.
Her most recent lapse from the loop of the universe came to her through the guise of her lover. Before that it took on the countenance of a stranger, once removed. And before that there were others, as there are always others.
"Why should I pretend I'm not arrogant? The very fact of it makes a denial damn near impossible. And whatever happened to finding arrogance appealing? I'm not the one changing here. Hey, don't even give me that look. This 'changing is a good thing' stance of yours is brand-fucking new and way too convenient to be taken seriously."
Her reflection looked contrite. But as this pleased her, in the next moment it began to look smug so that she felt ridiculous but pissed off anyway. She left the mirror alone with its victory.
Restless, Carrie asked her co-worker, "Do you consider yourself influenced by the weather?" as she returned from the restroom to the cubicle that they shared.
"Sure, my umbrella's right over there," she gestured wildly at the door before waving Carrie over to her with an impatient jerk-motion of her arm. She evidently didn't notice the younger woman's dissatisfied expression as she pressed on once again about the importance of consistent returns in their line of work, not bothering to explain what they were even doing here, so irrelevant as this small detail had turned out to be. In this room, Carrie found convincing herself that she was still alive to be hardest. Unfortunately, she also spent most of her time here.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Janey
"Not fair, not fair, not fair!" She'd raged against the sofa pillows for fifteen minutes, slamming her tightly closed fists into them until they flew up and dance-popped around like nervous kettle corn. Her voice was nearing ragged by now, but she failed to notice this, at least to the freezing point of cessation. She repeated her mantra (redundant?) in hush and harsh tones, not yelling so much as whispering with a solid force, and her tone was matter-of-fact rather than wounded complaint. So the injustice her words meant to express never got past her lips, and thus stayed within to stagnate and convince her rebellions to press on, avoiding relief at all costs.
But as suddenly as the tantrum had begun, the length of it came to an abrupt end. Janey sat heavily on the much-abused armchair and breathed the stale air in mouthfuls loud and slow. Head held high and with back bent not at all, she peered straight ahead, so that her glance hit incidentally beyond her gray apartment window. It lay upon the bougainvillea in fuchsia bloom, and (just like that,) she needed to be outside.
She remembered the wanting, and immediately after only the being there. Her eyes shuffled around then, locking on image after image, as though they were merely pictures of things that happen, (and not the things themselves/a thing in itself). She came to, (as) it seemed, standing on the steps of the building she lived in but seldom felt like hers, except between the pages of sleep and its absence.
Her whole self, as a sum of so many parts, suddenly felt simultaneously alive, and she drew in the blazing jasmine air through her pores, senses, lungs, as surely as the lowering sun set carefully on (the back of her) pale shoulders. The frantic feeling of loss slamming against her chest like a locked-tight door/window/cage, now soothed down to a frail tap--and while part of her wanted to panic even at the implications of this improvement, a baser knowledge led on by the breathing of her body kept the panic subdued/at bay. She watched her self-visible body meld into the/her surroundings, almost belonging there, and (again) she began to believe in what she saw.
"He wanted to write a song," she said aloud. "That's why I came."
But as suddenly as the tantrum had begun, the length of it came to an abrupt end. Janey sat heavily on the much-abused armchair and breathed the stale air in mouthfuls loud and slow. Head held high and with back bent not at all, she peered straight ahead, so that her glance hit incidentally beyond her gray apartment window. It lay upon the bougainvillea in fuchsia bloom, and (just like that,) she needed to be outside.
She remembered the wanting, and immediately after only the being there. Her eyes shuffled around then, locking on image after image, as though they were merely pictures of things that happen, (and not the things themselves/a thing in itself). She came to, (as) it seemed, standing on the steps of the building she lived in but seldom felt like hers, except between the pages of sleep and its absence.
Her whole self, as a sum of so many parts, suddenly felt simultaneously alive, and she drew in the blazing jasmine air through her pores, senses, lungs, as surely as the lowering sun set carefully on (the back of her) pale shoulders. The frantic feeling of loss slamming against her chest like a locked-tight door/window/cage, now soothed down to a frail tap--and while part of her wanted to panic even at the implications of this improvement, a baser knowledge led on by the breathing of her body kept the panic subdued/at bay. She watched her self-visible body meld into the/her surroundings, almost belonging there, and (again) she began to believe in what she saw.
"He wanted to write a song," she said aloud. "That's why I came."
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
"You ain't saying nothing that I don't already know."
Their faces were like lemon-drops and their eyes watered readily/reality. (Pretty girls make me blush.) I need some kind of structure; some kind of BELIEF. (It's like a kid on a cellphone! It drops things, and bends extravagantly over to collect them again.) This sharpness is in bad taste, I think.
It's the one thing you can't think about, be assured. How fragmented you must be! What sort of alternative would I prefer? Were it that you were here, with the face that you wear--open and full in front of me...then you wouldn't see me with eyes this foggy? My mood wouldn't drip tangibly and rich-viscous with wake. If you were here? You wouldn't know me at all.
Ah, but this doesn't save me from wanting you. I want to taste the flavor your eyes choose for ignorance! I want to listen to you telling me somethingsomething, your voice fluttering on and on in its brevity. What would you look like? Sitting here, with nothing but me for a distraction? I want to count your yawns; follow your drifting glance. Almost, I want you here without me.
[Don't put it past yourself to be here now. Your desires entail your presence. Yes. Practice, then, not abandoning yourself (while you still can see that you are).]
It's the one thing you can't think about, be assured. How fragmented you must be! What sort of alternative would I prefer? Were it that you were here, with the face that you wear--open and full in front of me...then you wouldn't see me with eyes this foggy? My mood wouldn't drip tangibly and rich-viscous with wake. If you were here? You wouldn't know me at all.
Ah, but this doesn't save me from wanting you. I want to taste the flavor your eyes choose for ignorance! I want to listen to you telling me somethingsomething, your voice fluttering on and on in its brevity. What would you look like? Sitting here, with nothing but me for a distraction? I want to count your yawns; follow your drifting glance. Almost, I want you here without me.
[Don't put it past yourself to be here now. Your desires entail your presence. Yes. Practice, then, not abandoning yourself (while you still can see that you are).]
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