| he's |
[Thursday
October 29th, 2009 at 1:56am] |
breathing, again.
I and me-- inside. I still hear crying.
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[Tuesday
June 23rd, 2009 at 6:02pm] |
I think of you one way, this way, another way.
The fault lines do not match.
And I jump from ledge to slippery ledge, unable to consolidate.
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| So volatile |
[Tuesday
March 24th, 2009 at 6:57pm] |
-- my days. I am dulled and slow and adept and rich.
Trying to appreciate.
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| You still make me nervous |
[Tuesday
January 6th, 2009 at 5:29pm] |
Dear Jordan,
This is what I would have talked about yesterday had I had greater verbal facility.
I am tongue-tied and have never jumped the disfluency hurdle. I was a mute for half of the day-- pronouncing no more than three words correctly in a sentence. If my words were heard by a synesthetic, I imagine hues of pitiful blues and a deepened, rough red would strike them at the core. So, I gave up real conversation (if I was engaging it in anyway), and resigned to swaying back and forth to Paris Combo and Portuguese music which was playing in World Market.
Maybe the embarrassing stutters and unfocused train (or bicycle with a flat tire) of thought were a result of my recent exposure to viola de gamba musical pieces. I want to go to European churches to hear eight second reverberations.
At the retirement home, my five second delays in responsiveness were more recognizable and even took on an unintentional mocking tone when attempting to engage in conversation with an equally unresponsive old person. Two residents remembered me, out of about seventy. I do not feel bad at all. I only remembered about ten of their names. I sojourned to the bathroom, hoping someone would forget to continue speaking to me. I am positive my assumptions were true.
I did entertain a few ideas in conversation with the resident Ivan and I were visiting. We mostly spoke about the "livelihood" of the place. It was an appropriate word. I had to close my eyes to remember the faces I mentally drew a check mark next to when a recently deceased was mentioned. There were maybe fifteen. And who has dementia now? I forget.
In a three-dimensional font face, I saw words slur out of my big fish lips along with my cracker crumbs. I stared at my lap, where they lay-- staining my crotch, as if I just pissed myself. Flawless elocution is so elusive. I was inquiring about one resident when I realized how loosely I was choosing my words.
"You know, the one with white-ish hair. She is short. She walks with a cane. Her husband is still alive, I think."
I admit, my grasp on language is something to be desired but when I said, "No, no. This one was more 'lively'..."
I shuddered, closed my eyes and imagined myself to be small, like a mouse, jumping with my arms outstretched-- reaching vainly for these floating visions of a 3-D alphabet depicting these letters in sequence: "L-I-V-E-L-Y", "A-L-I-V-E", "L-I-V-E", and "I-D-I-O-T". Feeling small, again, I mumbled the for the rest of the dinner.
This morning I was washing my feet with soap. It is the same Irish Spring brand I gave you. Even in my steamy 36 ºC shower, I chill traveled through me when I thought about my ticklish toes and Bokonon-style foot sex. I also thought about you wearing shoes. As much as I appreciate your style and your loafers (for however short of a time you have them), I love your bare feet. Feet can be repulsive, but there is a step about your gait I more prominently notice when you're barefoot. Plus, most hippies have crushes on you when you are barefoot. And you know I like to keep crush-worthies around me at all times.
When you come back, hopefully, we will be doing yoga, flossing our teeth, fixing my car and running around bazaars together.
XOXO,
Me.
P.S.
1. Dairy of Travelers
2. Streetlord
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| Random firings; exploding. |
[Tuesday
September 16th, 2008 at 5:05pm] |
I cannot capture as well as you do.
But come play. Come. Play along. A little longer
might do me some harm. And the most minute of trauma
harms the subconscious. You should be able to see the twitching, hand shaking, biting when appropriate.
If I do it well, you should feel it, too. Come, come play.
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| Seda a a shun |
[Tuesday
September 2nd, 2008 at 10:13pm] |
It's a sort of swelling. Transposed.
A twitch, an inaudible utterance, spasms into vigorous scratching.
Crawling under an encasement of skin.
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| Dr. Dr. |
[Friday
July 18th, 2008 at 11:04am] |
I hadn't been to the dentist in over four years although looking back, it felt like ten years of sodas, high fructose corn syrup, processed foods and general oral negligence until the gentle dental assistant reminded me. These assistants were new to me and I did not know what to expect of their three-inch acrylic nails and brown lip-liner. I was used to this one woman-- a woman near her late thirties. A box-dyed blond with feathered bangs and the stature of a pole. Since the age of three I had seen her at this office, and I vaguely remember her Christmas sweaters and being intimidated by her niceness. The lobby is what it was to me when I was three. It still retains the same rickety, wooden chairs, children's table and small, corner aquarium-- the same fish, perhaps. The old pictures were replaced with different ones-- nailed just as crookedly.
Dr. is still the same: the ultimate condescendor, stingy bowl-gutted man with pasty white, wrinkle-free hands who only really remembers me because of my files. Even still, I do not remember his nose being so bulbous. As a nervous child and an awkward and increasingly nervous teen, I never figured out how his slow speech, open-palmed hand gesticulations about his implicit, new partnership with companies providing posters and boxes of profoundly soul-shaking oral miracles (that I like to call a tube of toothpaste), made me feel dumb. Upset. Insecure. As much as I didn't want him to examine my teeth, hardly ever was I interested in buying a stick of chewing gum with replenishing minerals for $12, from him. Concluding every visit, though, I rationalize his offset plaques on the wall deserve him my time-- to listen to shameless promotion. But it's his quiet, straight-postured demeanor that gets me. In conjunction to his tonal resonance (of which, I am reminded of a Rosetta Stone narrator slowly and with organized cadence, repeating the words, "pay me, pay me" in a language with which I am familiar but would really rather ignore), his demeanor is that of a man of sixty with his life-time of achievements framed and drooping in an unstable manner on walls built in the 70's. Not to mention his hair-strand thick fishing wire tugging on my family's wallet. Although I appreciate his flexibility with our payments, I feel my already weakened college fund flushing down a man's toilet bowl with every tooth that is even considered. Subsequently, my stomach growls and I try to push away stomach anxiety until the next year when I can afford food.
Teresa was most kind to me. With most female medical or dental assistants, I have experienced that they will call you, "honey" or my personal favorite, "mija". Although she did not refer to me as the latter, I am still the former to her and a hundred other patients. I felt comfortable with her in the room-- moreso than my own familiar-faced dentist. She worked quickly as I attempted to keep my eyes open for the cleaning. It wasn't bad until I saw blood on a piece of gauze she pulled out of my mouth while working around my newly surfaced wisdom tooth. My eyes closed for a little, afterwards and I swallowed a salty mixture of blood and saliva because the hosed vacuum didn't hook to my fishy lips. She asked me a few questions about myself and I swear I could have understood her without the mask, despite the fact that she spoke Spanish to me. I regret not being more studious when learning Spanish, but I would like to think that we created our own language with her muffled Spanish and my half-inquisitive, half-confused eyebrows because she was very nice. After about fifteen minutes, she called me by name and gave me a Dixie cup of a clear liquid warning me three times to not swallow what tasted like water and potentially could have killed me. As she told me to fill out a post card to send to myself as a reminder for the next cleaning, I pondered the idea of a self-pity club consisting of a singular person sending their self post-cards from their self about rotten teeth equating to no college. At three, I just liked the postcards.
As I left, I couldn't help but wonder who else had this type of treatment. And if, in retrospect, my indirect relationship with money and Dr's direction relationship with my money meant something to me, Teresa or the next dupe who does not brush his/ her teeth properly. Still, I left feeling delighted with my services and with an excessively minty mouth ready to kiss the next person in reminder to schedule an appointment with the school counselor about becoming a dental hygienist.
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| How Gently |
[Tuesday
June 17th, 2008 at 10:00pm] |
As today was and has become, a day-- simply. As it is what was, in a sheathed respect. The subtleties experienced are categorized by a chaotic, ever-attempting compartmentalize-r (paradoxical by linguistic limitations) and are sought out by means of sense. Heavily, the regard of sensations are represented with exemplary aid from dichotomies and what is not what we strive to describe.
I, oftentimes, find myself marking the squares on the list of grievances to determine, on the social and two-dimensional spectrum of "good" and "bad", what exactly my day was "like". But, only relatively can my day "exactly" be "like"-- similar, resembled. Fuck (my) language. I am short-handed, rather, short-lipped and left for crippled.
But, today, as it were "as" and "like" my assemblage of (near) 365 days, I felt it OK.
Today, I wore a dress.
It was not too revealing; it was not too conservative; it was not too pink and it was not laden with embellishments. I feel it was not. I do feel it's seaming is elegant-- subtle. It's loose fit around a contented belly rested well, swayed well and it's antecedent: a cinching around a moderately pinched waist. Not overbearing or abrasive.
Today, with time constraints, I did not pour effort into other facets of beauty.
I did not correct my posture most of the day and I did not take a razor to my legs like I do other days when I satiate a desirous conformity to a bare American culture.
To a measurable degree, I appreciated my comfortable dress, my comfortable day.
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| Yearn |
[Wednesday
June 11th, 2008 at 8:56pm] |
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I keep pacing.
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| Outline |
[Friday
June 6th, 2008 at 8:39pm] |
There is something to be said about the attention I receive. Specifically, there is a manifestation of pity and sometimes it even resembles empathy.
Mostly, these moments correlate to familial issues.
After being conditioned into thinking there is a person to (not with) whom I can speak, I turn. But sometimes there is only an outline.
I do not mean to be so moved, so vexed, so sad (if those are even the words) for these moments of reception.
There is something unbridled, warm, heating, powerfully turbulent when I feel I should turn.
Issues brought forth are emotional gambits persuading, navigating and relating. Especially those so vehemently expressed.
At times, I turn full circle without a familiar face.
Calm.
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| Superman |
[Thursday
June 5th, 2008 at 8:09pm] |
When do we become so desperate?
Christ.
I feel the monster
possessing.
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| Pursue |
[Thursday
May 1st, 2008 at 4:43pm] |
I quake
quiver
smolder
I am pronounced.
I am hideously perfect.
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[Thursday
May 1st, 2008 at 4:27pm] |
I am.
I am improved.
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| Worrywart |
[Wednesday
April 23rd, 2008 at 11:36am] |
In and out of focus.
I can't keep it straight and I need some time to myself.
I need to talk myself through this.
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| Elusive |
[Monday
April 21st, 2008 at 7:28pm] |
Whenever I need to study, I would much, much much rather be drawing.
Only then. I would love to want to draw all the time.
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| Rehearsal |
[Wednesday
March 19th, 2008 at 11:30pm] |
If I were your lover
I would let you play doctor with me,
my shin would be bruised
from all those times your hammer
hit the wrong place.
If I were your lover
My mother would scold me,
your skinned knees and elbows
made you a lady.
If I were your lover
I would walk you to your car,
all the town's boys timed your footing, too.
You never had to wait for us.
Oh, if I were your lover
I would find peace in your garden,
au naturale and unweeded.
But feign,
If I were your lover
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| Angst-y |
[Tuesday
January 8th, 2008 at 11:30pm] |
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What nervousness.
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