This doesn't count as an actual day, it just makes me laugh. I wrote this when I was on codeine for my tonsillectomy and I was like "yeah this is pretty good stuff i'm writing! codeine doesn't affect me at all! I'm going to go back to bed now."
I just found it while going through my files-- this is the entire thing.
Are you hungry, it's lunchtimes
Yeah i could do with some food, what were you thinking
i wasn't. make something for yourself. he walks off
what! uhhhh. pasta.
she takes out a package of ramen.
boil water. she puts a pan on and
she turns on the oven.
this won't take long.
she puts it in unbroken up, in a floating lump.
Sean?? Seaaaannn!
What
I need you
Right now
Right now
Monday, November 29, 2010
Day 86.
thoughts about the lovely How to Be Alone video-- from a while back.
It's only been recently that I've been okay with being alone. I flick on the lamp and settle into the floor with a book. I write and I sing and I am happy. I don't think everyone feels like this though. I think we have forgotten. We go to the bathroom in groups and shout through the stalls, we bring our phones everywhere, and we look down at them if by some mistake we end up in a corner. Loner is the worst insult any of us can think to throw. Untouchable.. but it's a choice and it's one we all need to make once in awhile, because we can't even connect to each other when we're so bothered with trying. And if we just let it be-- we'd learn to be alone again, so we know who we are. So that we don't, as Joan Didion writes, run away to find oursevles and find that no one is home.
It's only been recently that I've been okay with being alone. I flick on the lamp and settle into the floor with a book. I write and I sing and I am happy. I don't think everyone feels like this though. I think we have forgotten. We go to the bathroom in groups and shout through the stalls, we bring our phones everywhere, and we look down at them if by some mistake we end up in a corner. Loner is the worst insult any of us can think to throw. Untouchable.. but it's a choice and it's one we all need to make once in awhile, because we can't even connect to each other when we're so bothered with trying. And if we just let it be-- we'd learn to be alone again, so we know who we are. So that we don't, as Joan Didion writes, run away to find oursevles and find that no one is home.
Day 85.
My essay for the second UC prompt. Not sure that counts as an ending?
My first kiss was a sycamore tree. I was thirteen years old and hiking near the Potomac River, my family somewhere ahead or behind. I didn't even think about it. Under my lips, the dappled bark was wrinkled and sun-warmed. I heard the rustle of leaves, and a bird, and further off, the river. And that was the beginning of my love affair with trees.
It's common courtesy that if you love something, you should know its name. So in freshman year, I joined a club at my school sort of like an environmental Acadec, called Envirothon. Each school has a team that goes to the state competition, and each team had a person who specialized in one of the five areas: aquatics, wildlife, soils, current issue, and forestry. As the forestry expert, I learned that there are many things you can know from a tree: whether there is a river nearby, what kind of animals depend on it, what kind of soil there will likely be. I learned how to measure a tree's height with a clinometer, a Biltmore stick, and an educated guess. But my favorite things I learned, my proudest accomplishment, were the names of almost every native tree in Southern California, common and scientific. I learned that the tree I kissed was a Planatus occidentalis and that its sibling in California was Planatus racemosa. To remember the names, I looked up the meanings, which mainly consisted of obscure botany terms and the explorer or naturalist that named the plant. But there were many surprises: The genus name for manzanita, Arctostaphylos, is a combination of the Greek for "bear" and "bunch of grapes"--probably because of the berries and red-brown bark; the name for willow, Salix, is a combination of the Latin for "near" and "water." I love being able to know my surroundings like this, to tell which living things preceded humans here. Knowing names lets me talk about them, and it connects me with centuries of people seeing these trees. I read what Thoreau thought of the pitch pine or what John Muir thought of the hundred-foot Douglas fir he climbed in a Sierra windstorm, and think that on the massive cliff of things I don't know, knowing and loving these trees is a foothold allowing me a view.
My first kiss was a sycamore tree. I was thirteen years old and hiking near the Potomac River, my family somewhere ahead or behind. I didn't even think about it. Under my lips, the dappled bark was wrinkled and sun-warmed. I heard the rustle of leaves, and a bird, and further off, the river. And that was the beginning of my love affair with trees.
It's common courtesy that if you love something, you should know its name. So in freshman year, I joined a club at my school sort of like an environmental Acadec, called Envirothon. Each school has a team that goes to the state competition, and each team had a person who specialized in one of the five areas: aquatics, wildlife, soils, current issue, and forestry. As the forestry expert, I learned that there are many things you can know from a tree: whether there is a river nearby, what kind of animals depend on it, what kind of soil there will likely be. I learned how to measure a tree's height with a clinometer, a Biltmore stick, and an educated guess. But my favorite things I learned, my proudest accomplishment, were the names of almost every native tree in Southern California, common and scientific. I learned that the tree I kissed was a Planatus occidentalis and that its sibling in California was Planatus racemosa. To remember the names, I looked up the meanings, which mainly consisted of obscure botany terms and the explorer or naturalist that named the plant. But there were many surprises: The genus name for manzanita, Arctostaphylos, is a combination of the Greek for "bear" and "bunch of grapes"--probably because of the berries and red-brown bark; the name for willow, Salix, is a combination of the Latin for "near" and "water." I love being able to know my surroundings like this, to tell which living things preceded humans here. Knowing names lets me talk about them, and it connects me with centuries of people seeing these trees. I read what Thoreau thought of the pitch pine or what John Muir thought of the hundred-foot Douglas fir he climbed in a Sierra windstorm, and think that on the massive cliff of things I don't know, knowing and loving these trees is a foothold allowing me a view.
Day 84.
The Samson twins, whether from habit or from need, were never found apart. In their classes, their desks were an inch closer together than the others students', so that their elbows met over the aisle, and when they walked through the halls of Lincoln High School it was together, one drifting in the same weaving, dreamy way as the other, so that their shoulders were not jarred into separation. They almost seemed to exist as halves of a whole, the opposite of a person with multiple personalities: like the two shared one personhood. Jane never cringed when teachers mistook her for Jasper, and Jasper didn't mind that people tended to call him Jane.
In the first few months of their freshman year, other students didn't seem to notice Jane and Jasper. If they turned their heads when the pair passed; if their eyes lingered on the twins' long, tangled thicket of blond hair that tumbled to their waists in twisted ropes, it was only for a moment. Until someone did notice, and then, at once everyone noticed, in the curiously glossy way of children who have registered that something is out of place but cannot decide what to do about it.
And the twins' hair, combined with their baggy jeans and nondescript backpacks, did make them look like poorly-disguised god-children, mischievous refugees of a fairy-tale world. They quietly enjoyed the muttering, the stares. The twins made it a game: who could get Lincoln High to believe a more ridiculous thing? Jane told anyone who would listen that she and Jasper were allergic to sunlight and grew their hair long as protection. Jasper started a rumor: their sibling, the third triplet, had died of a scissor wound, and their mother, broken with grief, had forbade them from going near scissors of any kind, raised them to fear the twin silver blades. Then, one sunny December day, Jane whispered to a boy in her history class that she and Jasper kept their strength in their hair. That if it was cut, they would not live to see the next day.
Even teachers heard the rumors, which floated up to their desks as students rummaged for pencil or paper. The splash of the drinking fountains seemed to murmur them. If Frank Klimt and his friends had not herded the twins into the quad at lunch, someone else would have. But it was Frank, baring his teeth at Jasper (or was it Jane?), Frank cracking jokes like seeds between his teeth, Frank's head swiveling to find a grin in the surrounding crowd that would be the spark of something happening.
Jasper and Jane kept their heads slightly bowed, Jane's arm around Jasper's shoulder. They shot glances between them like a magician and his assistant, drawing out their secrets.
They did not struggle as Frank pulled the curtains of hair from their faces, turned them up like sunflowers towards the cloudless sky. There was a moment of impatient silence from the throng of people, but the twins did not burn or break into hives or so much as sneeze. Now their small smiles had vanished. They shook loose from Frank's minions and stood back to back, spines straight, each vertebrae of each back finding a notch in the other. The minions were prepared: five pairs of stolen scissors were drawn like pistols from pockets, brandished wildly.
The twins exchanged a second's glance but did not show fright as the crowd, buzzing with disappointment, pressed closer: the second rumor was also false. Frank grabbed hold of their arms and motioned for his friends to bring their scissors. Jasper did not have to look at Jane to see that her face was crumpling; he fought his own brimming tears. They were surrounded on every side, reaching hands trying to pull out strands of that strange yellow hair. Then two pairs of scissors flashed in the golden sunlight, and two locks of hair fell into the melee.
* * *
The twins were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had slipped away, although no one could understand how it happened so suddenly. But there was a distraction: a unique epidemic had afflicted all the students and teachers, administrators and custodians: everyone was losing hair in massive chunks. One girl's bangs fell off in her morning shower. A teacher's scraggly beard simply slipped off his chin in the middle of a lecture about friction. In a matter of days, everyone was bald. The phones in the office were disconnected due to the constant threatening calls from family lawyers, and attendance at Lincoln High School plummeted. The students who did come to school touched each other's smooth scalps in wonder. Everyone was strangely androgynous; friends didn't recognize each other in the hallways. Some girls hid out in the bathroom and cried, caking on ever more makeup, and the less bulky boys hid too, eating lunch in cramped stalls. Mothers cradled their now baby-headed children and told them what pretty eyes they had, how their forehead acne would improve dramatically. The punk kids replaced their gelled spikes with scalp tattoos.
And slowly, the regrowing of Lincoln High began, watched in mirrors over months of mornings. Some students kept their old hair as it grew back, but most took up shaving their heads. For one thing it had become the norm, but there was another reason: they found that there was a certain pride in facing the world raw.
In the first few months of their freshman year, other students didn't seem to notice Jane and Jasper. If they turned their heads when the pair passed; if their eyes lingered on the twins' long, tangled thicket of blond hair that tumbled to their waists in twisted ropes, it was only for a moment. Until someone did notice, and then, at once everyone noticed, in the curiously glossy way of children who have registered that something is out of place but cannot decide what to do about it.
And the twins' hair, combined with their baggy jeans and nondescript backpacks, did make them look like poorly-disguised god-children, mischievous refugees of a fairy-tale world. They quietly enjoyed the muttering, the stares. The twins made it a game: who could get Lincoln High to believe a more ridiculous thing? Jane told anyone who would listen that she and Jasper were allergic to sunlight and grew their hair long as protection. Jasper started a rumor: their sibling, the third triplet, had died of a scissor wound, and their mother, broken with grief, had forbade them from going near scissors of any kind, raised them to fear the twin silver blades. Then, one sunny December day, Jane whispered to a boy in her history class that she and Jasper kept their strength in their hair. That if it was cut, they would not live to see the next day.
Even teachers heard the rumors, which floated up to their desks as students rummaged for pencil or paper. The splash of the drinking fountains seemed to murmur them. If Frank Klimt and his friends had not herded the twins into the quad at lunch, someone else would have. But it was Frank, baring his teeth at Jasper (or was it Jane?), Frank cracking jokes like seeds between his teeth, Frank's head swiveling to find a grin in the surrounding crowd that would be the spark of something happening.
Jasper and Jane kept their heads slightly bowed, Jane's arm around Jasper's shoulder. They shot glances between them like a magician and his assistant, drawing out their secrets.
They did not struggle as Frank pulled the curtains of hair from their faces, turned them up like sunflowers towards the cloudless sky. There was a moment of impatient silence from the throng of people, but the twins did not burn or break into hives or so much as sneeze. Now their small smiles had vanished. They shook loose from Frank's minions and stood back to back, spines straight, each vertebrae of each back finding a notch in the other. The minions were prepared: five pairs of stolen scissors were drawn like pistols from pockets, brandished wildly.
The twins exchanged a second's glance but did not show fright as the crowd, buzzing with disappointment, pressed closer: the second rumor was also false. Frank grabbed hold of their arms and motioned for his friends to bring their scissors. Jasper did not have to look at Jane to see that her face was crumpling; he fought his own brimming tears. They were surrounded on every side, reaching hands trying to pull out strands of that strange yellow hair. Then two pairs of scissors flashed in the golden sunlight, and two locks of hair fell into the melee.
* * *
The twins were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had slipped away, although no one could understand how it happened so suddenly. But there was a distraction: a unique epidemic had afflicted all the students and teachers, administrators and custodians: everyone was losing hair in massive chunks. One girl's bangs fell off in her morning shower. A teacher's scraggly beard simply slipped off his chin in the middle of a lecture about friction. In a matter of days, everyone was bald. The phones in the office were disconnected due to the constant threatening calls from family lawyers, and attendance at Lincoln High School plummeted. The students who did come to school touched each other's smooth scalps in wonder. Everyone was strangely androgynous; friends didn't recognize each other in the hallways. Some girls hid out in the bathroom and cried, caking on ever more makeup, and the less bulky boys hid too, eating lunch in cramped stalls. Mothers cradled their now baby-headed children and told them what pretty eyes they had, how their forehead acne would improve dramatically. The punk kids replaced their gelled spikes with scalp tattoos.
And slowly, the regrowing of Lincoln High began, watched in mirrors over months of mornings. Some students kept their old hair as it grew back, but most took up shaving their heads. For one thing it had become the norm, but there was another reason: they found that there was a certain pride in facing the world raw.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Day 83.
So Cappelli gave us the quote at the top of my last post and told us to write a sonnet based on it.
I don't know how I feel about this one.
The lights are always on near where you live.
In your yellow windows lightning pauses,
and soon that illumination will give
way to thunder. I don't know what causes
the delay that lets me measure in time
our distance, whisper the seconds in some
improbably dark corner, where sublime
fists start fights; where compelling wrecks become
legend or tragedy, or both. Because
your blackened eye like a ripe plum will swell
and you will tell me that maybe there was
sort-of beauty in how these pieces fell.
Broken things have stories, so we listen.
We mark them ours to watch the shards glisten.
I don't know how I feel about this one.
The lights are always on near where you live.
In your yellow windows lightning pauses,
and soon that illumination will give
way to thunder. I don't know what causes
the delay that lets me measure in time
our distance, whisper the seconds in some
improbably dark corner, where sublime
fists start fights; where compelling wrecks become
legend or tragedy, or both. Because
your blackened eye like a ripe plum will swell
and you will tell me that maybe there was
sort-of beauty in how these pieces fell.
Broken things have stories, so we listen.
We mark them ours to watch the shards glisten.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Day 82. Autobiography.
"Don't tell me the moon is shining, show me the glint of light on broken glass." -- Anton Chekhov
here it is:
my dirty city, my
strung together suburbs like christmas tree lights city, my
neon signs up all night city, my
roadside attraction city, my
isolation city, my
strip clubs next to middle schools city, my
black magic city with young blood, young bones--
my air conditioned buses leaking freon city, my
city of a thousand movements.
my city of women on the beach who sell chopped
mangoes with lemon and chili powder and my
city of whatever lives under the pier, my
frontier city breathing santa ana winds, my
"meek wives with carving knives" city , my
"garbled vomit on the shore" city.
i'm yours,
my city with sneaky seasons. my
city of tour buses and eleven million languages
one for everyone get your own today only 9.99 call now-- my
city of lost cats and found dachshunds.
my city wanting so hard, my
sleek and waxy city like the clementines that come in crates each winter.
underneath is the leathery skin,
pins and needles smell of citrus
the shade of groves--
that past is long gone, what could it mean to my
fifteen seconds of fame city? my
planes for shooting stars city, my
scribbled notes found crumpled in parking lots city, my
sweet disposition-ed downtown buildings city, my
high-up curlicued stone city, my
monsoon melodrama city, my
union station city with spanish tiles and sunshine. my
neighbor's pungent gingko tree city, my
city of droughts and floods and sidewalks sanded with broken glass.
my hallways of ficuses and palms city, my
pilgrimage city. my amnesiac city, my
city of myth, my
city where we worship
people who pretend to be heroes on a screen. my
seizing grin city, my song on the radio city, my
curving prows of silver ships echoing centuries of oceanic crescendoes city, my
roach coach city of deliciousity. my
city of postage stamp gardens and potted hopes. my
opinionated city, my grandmother's city when she
worked as the telephone operator-- connecting
one angeleno to another like los angeles itself.
here it is:
my dirty city, my
strung together suburbs like christmas tree lights city, my
neon signs up all night city, my
roadside attraction city, my
isolation city, my
strip clubs next to middle schools city, my
black magic city with young blood, young bones--
my air conditioned buses leaking freon city, my
city of a thousand movements.
my city of women on the beach who sell chopped
mangoes with lemon and chili powder and my
city of whatever lives under the pier, my
frontier city breathing santa ana winds, my
"meek wives with carving knives" city , my
"garbled vomit on the shore" city.
i'm yours,
my city with sneaky seasons. my
city of tour buses and eleven million languages
one for everyone get your own today only 9.99 call now-- my
city of lost cats and found dachshunds.
my city wanting so hard, my
sleek and waxy city like the clementines that come in crates each winter.
underneath is the leathery skin,
pins and needles smell of citrus
the shade of groves--
that past is long gone, what could it mean to my
fifteen seconds of fame city? my
planes for shooting stars city, my
scribbled notes found crumpled in parking lots city, my
sweet disposition-ed downtown buildings city, my
high-up curlicued stone city, my
monsoon melodrama city, my
union station city with spanish tiles and sunshine. my
neighbor's pungent gingko tree city, my
city of droughts and floods and sidewalks sanded with broken glass.
my hallways of ficuses and palms city, my
pilgrimage city. my amnesiac city, my
city of myth, my
city where we worship
people who pretend to be heroes on a screen. my
seizing grin city, my song on the radio city, my
curving prows of silver ships echoing centuries of oceanic crescendoes city, my
roach coach city of deliciousity. my
city of postage stamp gardens and potted hopes. my
opinionated city, my grandmother's city when she
worked as the telephone operator-- connecting
one angeleno to another like los angeles itself.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Day 81. The Purgatory Between Buildings E and F
(first draft)
Truth is, you won't remember now.
If you're living day by day,
keeping time on a pocketchain,
you'll keep record of the small
things that momentarily halt the routine--
but even so this will
evade you like an invisible gorilla.
The days sneak past and
even your ups and downs are predictable.
You could take a different staircase but it wouldn't
get you there just right just
so
Yes, it's better this way.
--although
you do wonder, right?
When the future will come
(if it does.)
and your mistakes will only be toys
you let your children play with--
when there will be nothing to jeopardize.
This isn't a call to action.
You don't like it when books or movies, stories about youth, get into
the inevitableShort. Verb. Command. Sentences
(goleaplaughcrysoar)
because you feel only the absence of feeling
you should be crying, you should be throwing that story across the room as you
say yes to motorcycles, to tequila-filled chocolates--
but you're alone and no one's watching
so who's to say you're here?
Alive.
It's a word you've heard since birth and before
but you still don't know what it means.
The sugar bones in your feet were made to break
and you've worn your claws to stubs;
still you feel the growl inside.
Alive.
Forget your stolen promises to make this a better year.
Time is found in transitions, so linger
for the long goodbye.
Plays would not be the same without their (beats) and neither would you.
Let this be your first memory.
Unfold the origami of a staircase.
If you want to remember-- find the hidden sides.
Truth is, you won't remember now.
If you're living day by day,
keeping time on a pocketchain,
you'll keep record of the small
things that momentarily halt the routine--
but even so this will
evade you like an invisible gorilla.
The days sneak past and
even your ups and downs are predictable.
You could take a different staircase but it wouldn't
get you there just right just
so
Yes, it's better this way.
--although
you do wonder, right?
When the future will come
(if it does.)
and your mistakes will only be toys
you let your children play with--
when there will be nothing to jeopardize.
This isn't a call to action.
You don't like it when books or movies, stories about youth, get into
the inevitableShort. Verb. Command. Sentences
(goleaplaughcrysoar)
because you feel only the absence of feeling
you should be crying, you should be throwing that story across the room as you
say yes to motorcycles, to tequila-filled chocolates--
but you're alone and no one's watching
so who's to say you're here?
Alive.
It's a word you've heard since birth and before
but you still don't know what it means.
The sugar bones in your feet were made to break
and you've worn your claws to stubs;
still you feel the growl inside.
Alive.
Forget your stolen promises to make this a better year.
Time is found in transitions, so linger
for the long goodbye.
Plays would not be the same without their (beats) and neither would you.
Let this be your first memory.
Unfold the origami of a staircase.
If you want to remember-- find the hidden sides.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Day 80. True Facts.
Night. Residential backyard. MOM closes the back door; it locks. EMILY, CONNIE, and SAROH are walking to the car already. MOM reaches into her pocket, then looks up in panic
MOM
Emily, you have keys right?
EMILY
Uh... no....
MOM
Connie, do you?
CONNIE
Yeah they're in my backpack, let me go get them
MOM
Your backpack... inside the house?
CONNIE
Yeah... OH.
MOM
Okay, nobody get worried, we're just going to think this through. I have the car keys, my phone, and my purse..
CONNIE
Emily, didn't you break in through the bathroom window that one time?
EMILY
Yeah but then I told Dad and instead of being proud of me he fixed it.
CONNIE
What about the time you broke in through the patio door?
EMILY
He fixed that too.
Meanwhile, SAROH hunts for paperclips
MOM
I didn't bolt the door...it's just that flimsy lock...
(she shakes it)
I'm going to go around the house and see if any of the windows are unlocked.
CONNIE
Can't we just like... kick it?
series of increasingly awkward high kicks to the door
Has anyone here watched more than an hour of Cops?
silence
EMILY
Wait wait I can totally do this.
EMILY begins trying to kick in door. CONNIE grabs her by one calf; EMILY grabs onto door; chaos ensues. EMILY is on ground in fetal position clutching her arm when MOM comes back.
MOM
Oh my god what happened
CONNIE
Well see Emily was trying to kick the door in so I tried to
EMILY
I'm pretty sure you removed my arm from its socket.
MOM
NO GOOFING AROUND. Connie, go get the toolbox from the car.
EMILY
Hey Mom? Should I break the window, or the lock?
MOM
NEITHER
House phone rings; ALL strain to hear as it goes to voicemail.
DAD
Hey guys, it's Dad, Arrowhead's great, it's so nice up here, just wondering how you are. I bet you're out having a good time. Alright talk to you later!
CONNIE is attempting to open the back door with a leaf wrapped around a stick. EMILY is trying to hand her a credit card.
MOM is scrolling through phone contacts
OH STEPHANIE HAS KEYS! I'll call her.
EMILY, CONNIE, and SAROH: BUT WE WERE SO CLOSE!!!
MOM
Emily, you have keys right?
EMILY
Uh... no....
MOM
Connie, do you?
CONNIE
Yeah they're in my backpack, let me go get them
MOM
Your backpack... inside the house?
CONNIE
Yeah... OH.
MOM
Okay, nobody get worried, we're just going to think this through. I have the car keys, my phone, and my purse..
CONNIE
Emily, didn't you break in through the bathroom window that one time?
EMILY
Yeah but then I told Dad and instead of being proud of me he fixed it.
CONNIE
What about the time you broke in through the patio door?
EMILY
He fixed that too.
Meanwhile, SAROH hunts for paperclips
MOM
I didn't bolt the door...it's just that flimsy lock...
(she shakes it)
I'm going to go around the house and see if any of the windows are unlocked.
CONNIE
Can't we just like... kick it?
series of increasingly awkward high kicks to the door
Has anyone here watched more than an hour of Cops?
silence
EMILY
Wait wait I can totally do this.
EMILY begins trying to kick in door. CONNIE grabs her by one calf; EMILY grabs onto door; chaos ensues. EMILY is on ground in fetal position clutching her arm when MOM comes back.
MOM
Oh my god what happened
CONNIE
Well see Emily was trying to kick the door in so I tried to
EMILY
I'm pretty sure you removed my arm from its socket.
MOM
NO GOOFING AROUND. Connie, go get the toolbox from the car.
EMILY
Hey Mom? Should I break the window, or the lock?
MOM
NEITHER
House phone rings; ALL strain to hear as it goes to voicemail.
DAD
Hey guys, it's Dad, Arrowhead's great, it's so nice up here, just wondering how you are. I bet you're out having a good time. Alright talk to you later!
CONNIE is attempting to open the back door with a leaf wrapped around a stick. EMILY is trying to hand her a credit card.
MOM is scrolling through phone contacts
OH STEPHANIE HAS KEYS! I'll call her.
EMILY, CONNIE, and SAROH: BUT WE WERE SO CLOSE!!!
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Day 79.
line your eyes so everyone will see your wet despair, your hairless hope.
coax your hair to look like the picture from a magazine (torn edges, you stole it while
waiting in the grocery line)
wear your heels like cat's bells so everyone knows where you are, what little mischief
you will accomplish next--
twitch on their table--let them pin you down
as they try to understand their own creation(you).
the effort is
heartfelt.
then
stand at precipices, skirts billowing
around you in a shell
and bellow from your gut (not your petticoat, nor your girdle)--
I AM NOT VENUS--
SHE WAS NOT BORN
coax your hair to look like the picture from a magazine (torn edges, you stole it while
waiting in the grocery line)
wear your heels like cat's bells so everyone knows where you are, what little mischief
you will accomplish next--
twitch on their table--let them pin you down
as they try to understand their own creation(you).
the effort is
heartfelt.
then
stand at precipices, skirts billowing
around you in a shell
and bellow from your gut (not your petticoat, nor your girdle)--
I AM NOT VENUS--
SHE WAS NOT BORN
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Day 78
the night the Gore and Spectacle stopped
we were suspended on puppet strings,--
minds aloft,
we were transfixed in taxonomy-- the carousel
turned, chasing lights of spinning mirrors
accordions breathing in the yellow-gold gauzy light and
gilt horses leaping mechanical magic
tracing out centuries of
souls leaving bodies
except, they don't quite anymore, just pull at the edges
until we shake them back into our shapes.
beside me you sang low notes from the back of your throat.
we leaned on the banister and watched.
tears in my eyes, i hoped it would collapse--
all our strings could strangle us and still we'd move like marionettes
for as long as the music played.
we were suspended on puppet strings,--
minds aloft,
we were transfixed in taxonomy-- the carousel
turned, chasing lights of spinning mirrors
accordions breathing in the yellow-gold gauzy light and
gilt horses leaping mechanical magic
tracing out centuries of
souls leaving bodies
except, they don't quite anymore, just pull at the edges
until we shake them back into our shapes.
beside me you sang low notes from the back of your throat.
we leaned on the banister and watched.
tears in my eyes, i hoped it would collapse--
all our strings could strangle us and still we'd move like marionettes
for as long as the music played.
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