The writing about was the writing.

Month: June, 2012


thirty seconds I forget my body and my eyes open and close and I’m moving my hand is clenched and hitting the rail I’m thirteen I’m sixteen nineteen twenty two almost twenty nine and I don’t even pay attention.

A song I’ve known longer than

I never even considered: What got erased; what didn’t. My eyes open and close. Define the perimeter.

(I wrote all of that yesterday in the sun on my iPhone. Probably.)

Today I’m rasp and burnt-red and summer is a morning thunderstorm/

time & ocean

I am walking today like a stubborn pony, my foot kicking back with a tentative fury. And thinking about horses, about a girl who loves horses and the summer. E. and I drove past the stable where I learned to ride one day last year and it was closed. I cried and got hot and angry. This too couldn’t be allowed to exist.

How quickly we get from little girl: A bucket the beach laughter. How little girl there still is, scraps of her. You is a character like she and I and everything else. It knocks me off my balance this need to define. My intentions are certainly questionable but I have answers. I will go back and add line breaks. I am paying attention to commas.

I had occasion to revisit my high school yearbook. Skimmed through strangers telling me that I didn’t need luck. You are so talented really talented the most talented. (But we hate you.) Skimmed through various versions of myself so much smiling. I used to be coy but now I’m just tired. My foot trembles when it’s tired.

And no I don’t need a particular box to remember who first said best smile. I need the box to believe that anyone exists outside of elbows and artifacts. And to restrain what I can carry, limit its blurry mess. There is control involved all the time, almost. Leave room for air. Leave the room for air. Leave, make room for air.

Abruptly swing to the different shapes of the disappearing, reappearing bruises. Scars become ivy growing over another gate. What gates do, what I do with them. Why it’s time to need another tattoo. To mark tangibly that I exist outside myself, for myself, again.

July is rapidly becomes nearly-here. Am I coward? The question is about character. She and I and everything else is just filler for time and ocean,

Sometimes, aware & fighting

I fight, when I realize what’s happening. But often it takes infinitely long to become aware.

If it feels like I’m really screaming. Or why I’m in a house that doesn’t exist. Why I’m not angry, or why I’m so angry. Maybe a window is barely cracked open but I can hear the cat whine. And cats don’t even exist, perhaps. Went extinct in early September.

Often it has to be a few things together: I’m screaming at a man I never have to see again and I’m running down stairs and I’m shattering windows that I’ve already shattered and the clock is fuzzy and I can’t get my phone to work. I can’t remember the phone number of the person who will save me.

You feel your mind push back. Don’t scream; you’ll wake the nurse next door. Wait, what nurse next door? You do know the phone number. You can see each digit, you are whispering them and then you realize the window is already shattered and that you are safe and no one saved you. The phone starts to disappear.

My eyes opened and I make out pillow, window. The sound of air conditioning. I grab my phone, my mother talks me awake. I make lemon ginger tea, letting the tea bag steep too long on purpose. The sharp ginger on my tongue.

I am infinitely aware and I am sometimes fighting.

Scene & Problem

I haven’t set the scene on purpose.

If you’ve already decided you should go. Finish the circle/you can never finish a circle. That’s a problem.

The cursor is disappearing, again. A different kind of problem. If I draw the lines.

If you are still concerned with possible maybe that’s another kind of problem. This isn’t about passing. If I deviate, it’s a choice. Does that make it a problem? (Possibly.) Deciding is as clean a line as a moment drawn out into a better shape. A resetting of system.

Finding a fix was never the problem.

I haven’t set the scene but maybe the scene sets itself. A circle spins and I pretend I’m involved. An observer of the circles of the lines. It’s always summer unless we’re talking about snow. It’s always a basement, a bedroom unless we’re talking about sun.

A broken watch isn’t keeping time.

she & i

In a library that doesn’t exist anymore, I opened a drawer of small yellowing typewriter-printed cards. She found her way to the musty back of the row in the back of a corner and climbed on the creaky stool and pulled it down. Stacks have always been a comfortable, orderly escape. See Also: Locked bathrooms, reading in a bathtub. A hotel closet. Up ancient stairs into a tiny old classroom. See Also: The library I love most in the world. She was not in that library. The paper in the book was thin; I can nearly still feel it. She sat and discovered an entirely new way of breathing. An entirely new place, an entirely new world. I didn’t understand nearly anything that first visit with the thin-papered book. She kept those ten lines in her mind forever. I live unsettled. She is not a child, has almost no time for libraries. Still, I wait for sunlight place yes.