(fiction)
To My Alleyway Mama
Mama, it's me. I know you don't remember but it's okay. I want you to remember but I don't need you to. Maybe a couple things. Remember one Christmas I bought you a bicycle? I saved up the endless spending money Father gave me. You had a lifelong fear of being run over so you rode it in quiet afternoon alleyways, mapping out where the overhanging fig branches or blackberry brambles were. You knew which neighbors had turned out beloved, broken furniture to rust and fade and grow skins of dust and spiderwebs. You heard their backyard secrets through the fences as you pedaled. You were not very good at steering. The vagrant cats and slinking dogs had their eyes on you after their first terrifying close call with your front wheel. But you were fond of them, even if they came out of nowhere to scare you and swerve you. You called them names that made no sense to me, and would refer to them as people, old friends, news of whom could make or break a day. You even named the bicycle: Clarise. I told this to Father one day and he changed the subject and mussed my hair. I heard him packing from my room but you were on the bike, and you were on the bike when Father started the car, and you were on the bike when I skidded into the kitchen where he left the note: I have an apartment on the other side of town. I'll call you. I'm sorry.
I ran outside. You were coming home and he was leaving and you saw my face and knew. You followed him to the busy street two blocks down, and then you stood and let Clarise fall on the sidewalk and you were crying, but you smiled because I was running after you like an irritated bird with my elbows out like that. You told me Get on the handlebars so I did and you were unsteady but we made it home okay.
You still call him Papa when he comes to pick me up.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Day 71.
assignment: kill an abstraction.
It was English that killed Abstraction, and English did it slowly, as if freezing off a blemish. Culling the herd by using the same words until they meant nothing. Abstraction made big gestures that meant nothing and spoke final words that meant nothing to anyone.
When Abstraction died, Love became a question mark, Freedom became a blank stare, Loneliness became shunned.
Political systems, belief systems, these died with hands turned upward, mouths synchronized in Wanting. Success and Failure died quietly, holding hands. Happiness and Sadness wept and laughed as they drowned in concrete. Life and Death held each other, and some later said they fused together as they burned.
The day abstraction died many did not know what to do.
They would curl up in corners and try to describe terms that used to come easy to their lips, and finally they would clutch their hands or face and start from their own bodies: They said, My heart beats faster when she's around, and She makes my sweat glands overproduce, and She makes my throat close and my pupils dilate. This might be l-l--" They stuttered, and then trailed off, looking confused.
English teachers rejoiced.
The dead words had finally been strangled by overuse, and there were many meanings to be made of everything.
The man with the hunched back walked along the shore and picked up every colorful thing he saw.
It was English that killed Abstraction, and English did it slowly, as if freezing off a blemish. Culling the herd by using the same words until they meant nothing. Abstraction made big gestures that meant nothing and spoke final words that meant nothing to anyone.
When Abstraction died, Love became a question mark, Freedom became a blank stare, Loneliness became shunned.
Political systems, belief systems, these died with hands turned upward, mouths synchronized in Wanting. Success and Failure died quietly, holding hands. Happiness and Sadness wept and laughed as they drowned in concrete. Life and Death held each other, and some later said they fused together as they burned.
The day abstraction died many did not know what to do.
They would curl up in corners and try to describe terms that used to come easy to their lips, and finally they would clutch their hands or face and start from their own bodies: They said, My heart beats faster when she's around, and She makes my sweat glands overproduce, and She makes my throat close and my pupils dilate. This might be l-l--" They stuttered, and then trailed off, looking confused.
English teachers rejoiced.
The dead words had finally been strangled by overuse, and there were many meanings to be made of everything.
The man with the hunched back walked along the shore and picked up every colorful thing he saw.
Day 70. Tire Swang
based on the description thingy we did!
Tom swung, high and higher, legs wrapped tightly around the tire, imprinting them with the patterned tread. He bent his hips so the tire swing turned and turned on its rope and then reversed all its motions, and he watched his world spin around him; the two grandfather oak trees, bent as if to pick up their grandchildren; the clouds strewn across the sky like the remains of a quilt pecked by crows.
Tom held on only with his legs, arms waving, and the tire swung towards the grandfather tree. The tire paused at the end of its rope, like it was a pendulum in a clock, and the time it measured had stopped. And then Tom hit the tree, hard, and slipped off the swing, foot still tangled in the tire. The momentum dragged his head across the ground, his hair melding with the dry grass bleached bone white by sun. He scuffed up the old yellow grass beneath the white. He left the ground raw.
They found him at midday, when the air was the temperature of fevered skin, and they held his bones together, and he screamed and screamed as his father sawed the rope of the swing, cutting down the tire to hurl it across the yard.
The world was sick with summer.
Tom swung, high and higher, legs wrapped tightly around the tire, imprinting them with the patterned tread. He bent his hips so the tire swing turned and turned on its rope and then reversed all its motions, and he watched his world spin around him; the two grandfather oak trees, bent as if to pick up their grandchildren; the clouds strewn across the sky like the remains of a quilt pecked by crows.
Tom held on only with his legs, arms waving, and the tire swung towards the grandfather tree. The tire paused at the end of its rope, like it was a pendulum in a clock, and the time it measured had stopped. And then Tom hit the tree, hard, and slipped off the swing, foot still tangled in the tire. The momentum dragged his head across the ground, his hair melding with the dry grass bleached bone white by sun. He scuffed up the old yellow grass beneath the white. He left the ground raw.
They found him at midday, when the air was the temperature of fevered skin, and they held his bones together, and he screamed and screamed as his father sawed the rope of the swing, cutting down the tire to hurl it across the yard.
The world was sick with summer.
Day 69. hurr hurr.
Scene opens on couple eating at a table in a cafe. Nighttime. They are next to two women, ONE and TWO. The couple is silent. They doctor their coffee.
1: Are you getting chocolate ice cream?? Gosh, I'm so particular, I never get chocolate ice cream. I'm very individual that way, about food.
You know when i was little I only drank milk and water. Like I didn't drink hot cocoa, i didn't drink lemonade, I didn't drink soda or juice or sparkling water or coffee or tea. Just milk and water. And I've only started drinking other things recently. Like really recent. Like... a month ago. Hahaha. Anyway.
2: I like chocolate ice cream.
1: So anyway for the longest time I never ate chocolate ice cream. Like at all. I don't know, it's just so.... I don't know. But i love chocolate cake. Me and my friends have this thing where we go get cake once a month, it's like our monthly cake month thing, and i always, always get chocolate. the store calls it chocolate overdose. isn't that hilarious?
MAN: (forced, quiet) Are you hearing this?
WOMAN: Hearing what?
MAN: That.... drivel?
WOMAN: Shhh
MAN: I don't know how you stand it.
WOMAN: There's nothing to stand. At least they're talking.
MAN: One of them is. In an unending monologue.
WOMAN: Harold, you never think other people will hear you talking about them, and they always do.
MAN: Well maybe they need to hear it.
WOMAN: Or maybe they're happier not knowing
MAN: You're missing the point completely.
(beat)
You know, there's self respect in being honest enough to say what you think.
WOMAN: There's self respect in not being egotistical.
MAN: Actually i think Ayn Rand would disagree.
WOMAN: You know what, go have dinner with Ayn Rand then.
MAN: I can't, she's dead.
WOMAN: (she sighs) I hate these conversations.
MAN: I don't. I loathe them
WOMAN: No wonder you alienate everyone.
MAN: If I alienate everyone, then you lie.
WOMAN: It's the truth, you push people away, and then you're misera--
MAN: No, no, I'm saying, you lie to people. You put up with them far longer than anyone else can and then you're their only friend.
WOMAN: You are so oblivious.
MAN: What are you even talking about.
WOMAN: If what you said is true --
MAN: Which part?
WOMAN: All of it, if that's true, then it applies to you too.
MAN: Are you seriously--
WOMAN: You push everyone else away. I'm the only one left. Do you still think i should stop being nice?
MAN: Yeah, you know what? I take it back. Maybe it's meaner to just pretend. maybe having fake friends isn't such a nice person thing to do after all.
WOMAN: They're not fake! I'm not pretending!
MAN: Don't get defensive.
She narrows her eyebrows.
WOMAN: looks around, sees that ONE AND TWO are staring at them.
She half-smiles and nervously looks down at her drink.
MAN: No, you know what, that's fine. Whatever makes you happy, i guess. (he leaves)
WOMAN: Same to you, then!
The women at the other table are still staring.
WOMAN: (rudely) What?
1: Are you getting chocolate ice cream?? Gosh, I'm so particular, I never get chocolate ice cream. I'm very individual that way, about food.
You know when i was little I only drank milk and water. Like I didn't drink hot cocoa, i didn't drink lemonade, I didn't drink soda or juice or sparkling water or coffee or tea. Just milk and water. And I've only started drinking other things recently. Like really recent. Like... a month ago. Hahaha. Anyway.
2: I like chocolate ice cream.
1: So anyway for the longest time I never ate chocolate ice cream. Like at all. I don't know, it's just so.... I don't know. But i love chocolate cake. Me and my friends have this thing where we go get cake once a month, it's like our monthly cake month thing, and i always, always get chocolate. the store calls it chocolate overdose. isn't that hilarious?
MAN: (forced, quiet) Are you hearing this?
WOMAN: Hearing what?
MAN: That.... drivel?
WOMAN: Shhh
MAN: I don't know how you stand it.
WOMAN: There's nothing to stand. At least they're talking.
MAN: One of them is. In an unending monologue.
WOMAN: Harold, you never think other people will hear you talking about them, and they always do.
MAN: Well maybe they need to hear it.
WOMAN: Or maybe they're happier not knowing
MAN: You're missing the point completely.
(beat)
You know, there's self respect in being honest enough to say what you think.
WOMAN: There's self respect in not being egotistical.
MAN: Actually i think Ayn Rand would disagree.
WOMAN: You know what, go have dinner with Ayn Rand then.
MAN: I can't, she's dead.
WOMAN: (she sighs) I hate these conversations.
MAN: I don't. I loathe them
WOMAN: No wonder you alienate everyone.
MAN: If I alienate everyone, then you lie.
WOMAN: It's the truth, you push people away, and then you're misera--
MAN: No, no, I'm saying, you lie to people. You put up with them far longer than anyone else can and then you're their only friend.
WOMAN: You are so oblivious.
MAN: What are you even talking about.
WOMAN: If what you said is true --
MAN: Which part?
WOMAN: All of it, if that's true, then it applies to you too.
MAN: Are you seriously--
WOMAN: You push everyone else away. I'm the only one left. Do you still think i should stop being nice?
MAN: Yeah, you know what? I take it back. Maybe it's meaner to just pretend. maybe having fake friends isn't such a nice person thing to do after all.
WOMAN: They're not fake! I'm not pretending!
MAN: Don't get defensive.
She narrows her eyebrows.
WOMAN: looks around, sees that ONE AND TWO are staring at them.
She half-smiles and nervously looks down at her drink.
MAN: No, you know what, that's fine. Whatever makes you happy, i guess. (he leaves)
WOMAN: Same to you, then!
The women at the other table are still staring.
WOMAN: (rudely) What?
Monday, August 2, 2010
Day 68.
my bio for the lit mag. :3
Emily Clarke likes strange stories and stranger realities. She kind of looks like a Salvadorian John Cusack circa Say Anything. But she's writing this herself, so don't trust her.
Emily Clarke likes strange stories and stranger realities. She kind of looks like a Salvadorian John Cusack circa Say Anything. But she's writing this herself, so don't trust her.
Day 67.
Description of a place in five minutes; plotless plootleing
There is dry yellow summer california grass, which fades into green where there is shade. i hear a crow caw as it swivels overhead. the wind only barely stirs the leaves.
the air tastes like dust, and smells a little bit like skunks.
I'm not far from the road, and there's the consistent sound of fading and approaching cars, like water running by but smoother, more predictable. there;s two big oak trees here, old and gnarled, and bent like a grandpa about to pick up grandchildren.
I see a faded and rotting tomato in the grass next to a paper plate: proof that this is not my spot alone. A tire sways slightly on its rope, swishing with water. I don't know how it got there because it has not rained in the longest time. i hear a thumping noise, sort of like wings beating and sort of like drumming . There's a tray nearby, and the way the grass is matted down in certain paths down the hill tells me what its for. Everything has shades of gray. The wispy clouds over head seem to have been combed into the hair of the sky. today the sky is blue. today the grass is greenish, I put my face to the ground and see spiders weave through the tangled grass. its one big connected mat, like walt whitman wrote. on the top level the dry grass is bleached bone white, but beneath it is yellow, and beneath that there are green shoots coming up. for fall. The air feels the temperature of skin, maybe a fever.I put my hand to this hill's forehead. sick with summer.
The crow is not happy. It sings to its brother in a raspy voice.
I've heard that crows sing patterns; that if you mock their calls they add on, as if teaching you their language.
The sun on the leaves filters through, makes everything dappled like horses.
There is dry yellow summer california grass, which fades into green where there is shade. i hear a crow caw as it swivels overhead. the wind only barely stirs the leaves.
the air tastes like dust, and smells a little bit like skunks.
I'm not far from the road, and there's the consistent sound of fading and approaching cars, like water running by but smoother, more predictable. there;s two big oak trees here, old and gnarled, and bent like a grandpa about to pick up grandchildren.
I see a faded and rotting tomato in the grass next to a paper plate: proof that this is not my spot alone. A tire sways slightly on its rope, swishing with water. I don't know how it got there because it has not rained in the longest time. i hear a thumping noise, sort of like wings beating and sort of like drumming . There's a tray nearby, and the way the grass is matted down in certain paths down the hill tells me what its for. Everything has shades of gray. The wispy clouds over head seem to have been combed into the hair of the sky. today the sky is blue. today the grass is greenish, I put my face to the ground and see spiders weave through the tangled grass. its one big connected mat, like walt whitman wrote. on the top level the dry grass is bleached bone white, but beneath it is yellow, and beneath that there are green shoots coming up. for fall. The air feels the temperature of skin, maybe a fever.I put my hand to this hill's forehead. sick with summer.
The crow is not happy. It sings to its brother in a raspy voice.
I've heard that crows sing patterns; that if you mock their calls they add on, as if teaching you their language.
The sun on the leaves filters through, makes everything dappled like horses.
Day 66. 10% fiction, 100% truth
Drag King
EXT. CALARTS PARKING LOT OUTSIDE CHOUINARD - DAY
EMILY stands in a parking lot with RUTH and SPENCER. Ruth is penciling in a thin mustache on Emily. She is wearing two sports bras, loose pajama pants, a huge hoodie, and a baseball cap with her hair pushed in.
EMILY (V.O.)
In this moment, the world falls quiet. I am about to infiltrate
the great unknown. I will be an outsider on the inside.
I will be in... the boy's hall at CSSSA. Of course, you have
questions. So do I. Am I doing this to get some? False. Why
would I go to the boy's hall to do that. Gross. I am here
for an experiment concerning cultural constructions of
gender and heteronormativity. And to fuck shit up. How
have I gotten this far? Sheer balls. And the help of Spencer,
my bro guide. Will my true identity be revealed? Only time
will tell. How far will I go? ....We'll see.
INT. PHLEGM-COLORED HALLWAY - DAY
Emily walks down hallway, pants sagging, with Spencer leading the way. They walk by BOYS, whose heads turn, mouths open. They look confused.
EMILY (in a deep voice)
Okay is this a realistic guy voice?
SPENCER
Don't talk.
Song begins playing: Lola, by the Kinks
"Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
It's a mixed up muddled up, shook up world"
INT. DORM ROOM AT CALARTS - DAY
Spencer and Emily walk into his room triumphantly. Emily looks around and speaks into a recorder. The room is messy.
EMILY
I have infiltrated. It smells of success. And sweat.
But mostly success.
SPENCER
Alright let's go.
INT. RANDOM HALLWAY - DAY
They are walking down random corridors because they can. Emily points to one door.
SPENCER
I don't know where that goes.
EMILY (into recorder)
I will follow all paths. I am a seeker of truth.
They exit.
EXT. CHOUINARD HALL, SIDE ENTRANCE - DAY
They are trying to get back in discreetly.
EMILY
Shit when did they lock this!!
SPENCER
We'll go through the lobby, there weren't any
R.A.s there last time.
EMILY (into recorder)
We are entering the enemy's den. We might
be destroyed. Fortunately I have covered my
picture on my name tag with masking tape.
INT. CHOUINARD HALL LOBBY - DAY
The R.A. looks up briefly. Emily looks down, the baseball cap's bill covering her face. The R.A. turns back to normal conversation.
EMILY and SPENCER
VICTORY!!!
They high five.
EXT. CHOUINARD HALL PARKING LOT - DAY
Ruth rejoins Emily, who changes back into jeans and girly shirt. Her R.A. ASHLEY walks by with a FRIEND.
RUTH
Hi!
Emily zips fly and turns around to wave. Ashley and friend walk away.
EMILY
Do I still have a mustache?
EXT. CALARTS PARKING LOT OUTSIDE CHOUINARD - DAY
EMILY stands in a parking lot with RUTH and SPENCER. Ruth is penciling in a thin mustache on Emily. She is wearing two sports bras, loose pajama pants, a huge hoodie, and a baseball cap with her hair pushed in.
EMILY (V.O.)
In this moment, the world falls quiet. I am about to infiltrate
the great unknown. I will be an outsider on the inside.
I will be in... the boy's hall at CSSSA. Of course, you have
questions. So do I. Am I doing this to get some? False. Why
would I go to the boy's hall to do that. Gross. I am here
for an experiment concerning cultural constructions of
gender and heteronormativity. And to fuck shit up. How
have I gotten this far? Sheer balls. And the help of Spencer,
my bro guide. Will my true identity be revealed? Only time
will tell. How far will I go? ....We'll see.
INT. PHLEGM-COLORED HALLWAY - DAY
Emily walks down hallway, pants sagging, with Spencer leading the way. They walk by BOYS, whose heads turn, mouths open. They look confused.
EMILY (in a deep voice)
Okay is this a realistic guy voice?
SPENCER
Don't talk.
Song begins playing: Lola, by the Kinks
"Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
It's a mixed up muddled up, shook up world"
INT. DORM ROOM AT CALARTS - DAY
Spencer and Emily walk into his room triumphantly. Emily looks around and speaks into a recorder. The room is messy.
EMILY
I have infiltrated. It smells of success. And sweat.
But mostly success.
SPENCER
Alright let's go.
INT. RANDOM HALLWAY - DAY
They are walking down random corridors because they can. Emily points to one door.
SPENCER
I don't know where that goes.
EMILY (into recorder)
I will follow all paths. I am a seeker of truth.
They exit.
EXT. CHOUINARD HALL, SIDE ENTRANCE - DAY
They are trying to get back in discreetly.
EMILY
Shit when did they lock this!!
SPENCER
We'll go through the lobby, there weren't any
R.A.s there last time.
EMILY (into recorder)
We are entering the enemy's den. We might
be destroyed. Fortunately I have covered my
picture on my name tag with masking tape.
INT. CHOUINARD HALL LOBBY - DAY
The R.A. looks up briefly. Emily looks down, the baseball cap's bill covering her face. The R.A. turns back to normal conversation.
EMILY and SPENCER
VICTORY!!!
They high five.
EXT. CHOUINARD HALL PARKING LOT - DAY
Ruth rejoins Emily, who changes back into jeans and girly shirt. Her R.A. ASHLEY walks by with a FRIEND.
RUTH
Hi!
Emily zips fly and turns around to wave. Ashley and friend walk away.
EMILY
Do I still have a mustache?
Day 65. Not in courier, but screenplay nonetheless.
FADE IN:
EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE FAR NORTH - DAY
Huddling, dark masses of Nordic PEASANTS stand below a large, ornate stage. They are silent, faces tilted up despite the slowly falling snow, looking at the cage with a dancing BEAR inside.
BEAR (V.O. )
I am a dancing bear. The peasants are very hungry.
The king's hunt has killed off all the other animals in the
woods and the peasants are very hungry. I am so large
one of my arms would feed a family for a week.
The masses are suddenly much closer.
INT. PRISON - DAY
There is a labryinth of high cement walls, with barbed wire on top. A GIRL runs through one of the passages, then hits a dead end and whips around her long brown hair and runs the other way. Everything gets blurry.
INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
Same girl tosses and turns in her bed.
EXT. PARK BENCH - MORNING
Girl sits. A kindly older MAN sits. He offers her a pickle from his trench coat. She shakes her head and smiles.
MAN
Why don't you like pickles? They're very nutritious!
(beat)
My wife doesn't like pickles either. She's dead. Are you
dead?
INT. SCHOOL CAFETERIA - DAY
THREE GIRLS sit or lie on the floor, drawing on a big white piece of paper. An indistinct TEACHER figure mumbles praise at them, and they smile at each other. There is a sound at the door. THREE MEN enter. One is carrying a huge gun. The girl starts running. Everyone is stock still, watching. She gathers momentum and grabs the gun, chucking it outside. She thinks this has solved everything. One of the men gestures to to the other to go out and get the gun. They do, but the girl is running again, and she throws the gun into a campfire.
The man looks back in consternation, then grabs it with his bare hand. Suddenly he is covered in blood. He looks up from under his long eyelashes and tosses the gun on the floor. It has turned into an alarm clock.
INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
Girl tosses and turns.
EXT. BEACH - EARLY MORNING
Calm, lapping waves. It's cloudy, and everything is gray. Not too deep out, there is a circle of PEOPLE holding things above their heads: babies. Slowly, ceremoniously, they lower the babies into the waist-deep water, and bring them out again in the same fluid motion. Suddenly this image breaks, as if hit with a hammer.
INT. BEDROOM - MORNING
Alarm clock goes off. Very annoying beeping and flashing, gets progressively more annoying. Girl hits alarm, which subsides. She blinks and looks vaguely confused.
INT. KITCHEN - MORNING
Girl eats cereal in kitchen. Her mom is drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
MOM
Did you have good dreams?
GIRL
No.
(beat)
I don't remember.
FADE TO BLACK.
EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE FAR NORTH - DAY
Huddling, dark masses of Nordic PEASANTS stand below a large, ornate stage. They are silent, faces tilted up despite the slowly falling snow, looking at the cage with a dancing BEAR inside.
BEAR (V.O. )
I am a dancing bear. The peasants are very hungry.
The king's hunt has killed off all the other animals in the
woods and the peasants are very hungry. I am so large
one of my arms would feed a family for a week.
The masses are suddenly much closer.
INT. PRISON - DAY
There is a labryinth of high cement walls, with barbed wire on top. A GIRL runs through one of the passages, then hits a dead end and whips around her long brown hair and runs the other way. Everything gets blurry.
INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
Same girl tosses and turns in her bed.
EXT. PARK BENCH - MORNING
Girl sits. A kindly older MAN sits. He offers her a pickle from his trench coat. She shakes her head and smiles.
MAN
Why don't you like pickles? They're very nutritious!
(beat)
My wife doesn't like pickles either. She's dead. Are you
dead?
INT. SCHOOL CAFETERIA - DAY
THREE GIRLS sit or lie on the floor, drawing on a big white piece of paper. An indistinct TEACHER figure mumbles praise at them, and they smile at each other. There is a sound at the door. THREE MEN enter. One is carrying a huge gun. The girl starts running. Everyone is stock still, watching. She gathers momentum and grabs the gun, chucking it outside. She thinks this has solved everything. One of the men gestures to to the other to go out and get the gun. They do, but the girl is running again, and she throws the gun into a campfire.
The man looks back in consternation, then grabs it with his bare hand. Suddenly he is covered in blood. He looks up from under his long eyelashes and tosses the gun on the floor. It has turned into an alarm clock.
INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
Girl tosses and turns.
EXT. BEACH - EARLY MORNING
Calm, lapping waves. It's cloudy, and everything is gray. Not too deep out, there is a circle of PEOPLE holding things above their heads: babies. Slowly, ceremoniously, they lower the babies into the waist-deep water, and bring them out again in the same fluid motion. Suddenly this image breaks, as if hit with a hammer.
INT. BEDROOM - MORNING
Alarm clock goes off. Very annoying beeping and flashing, gets progressively more annoying. Girl hits alarm, which subsides. She blinks and looks vaguely confused.
INT. KITCHEN - MORNING
Girl eats cereal in kitchen. Her mom is drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
MOM
Did you have good dreams?
GIRL
No.
(beat)
I don't remember.
FADE TO BLACK.
Day 64?
Lizard Nights
my skin, at the elbows
is where it starts.
i disintegrate into
rough and scaly
lizard skin
so i will posture in the sun
so i will wait for everyone to leave
so i will let my brain hand me
basic functions of life.
eat sleep talk shit die.
i am a lizard inside a lizard inside a lizard
my mind crawling over eleven different time zones
none of them the present
none of them
this moment.
i think about how:
when i was young i didn't believe i was real.
didn't believe i was Girl
at every doctor's appointment i curled inside myself and waited for the verdict.
i don't know what i thought they'd do
to cure loneliness, near-terminal awkwardness,
a lack
of easy conversation
of beauty and its rituals
of flirting eyes
of gracefulness
everything i thought girls were;
but i dreaded something definitive all the same.
i wasn't Boy. I wasn't anything shown on TV.
i wanted to be somebody i wanted to be frontal cortex
but instead i was the lizard in the corner, back brain, old brain, fight or flight brain
laughing and smiling because lizards do not know.
now i've grown new skin
now my outside is in but
sometimes i still hide in that self.
she comes out at night and i cover my eyes
hate the way my thoughts breed and the way my shoulders hunch
into the worn down slouch of a desert boulder.
they called me nice because i was nobody.
i liked everyone because they weren't me.
and now some nights i think maybe that's my human
hiding in my tough lizard skin, not
the other way around.
my skin, at the elbows
is where it starts.
i disintegrate into
rough and scaly
lizard skin
so i will posture in the sun
so i will wait for everyone to leave
so i will let my brain hand me
basic functions of life.
eat sleep talk shit die.
i am a lizard inside a lizard inside a lizard
my mind crawling over eleven different time zones
none of them the present
none of them
this moment.
i think about how:
when i was young i didn't believe i was real.
didn't believe i was Girl
at every doctor's appointment i curled inside myself and waited for the verdict.
i don't know what i thought they'd do
to cure loneliness, near-terminal awkwardness,
a lack
of easy conversation
of beauty and its rituals
of flirting eyes
of gracefulness
everything i thought girls were;
but i dreaded something definitive all the same.
i wasn't Boy. I wasn't anything shown on TV.
i wanted to be somebody i wanted to be frontal cortex
but instead i was the lizard in the corner, back brain, old brain, fight or flight brain
laughing and smiling because lizards do not know.
now i've grown new skin
now my outside is in but
sometimes i still hide in that self.
she comes out at night and i cover my eyes
hate the way my thoughts breed and the way my shoulders hunch
into the worn down slouch of a desert boulder.
they called me nice because i was nobody.
i liked everyone because they weren't me.
and now some nights i think maybe that's my human
hiding in my tough lizard skin, not
the other way around.
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