Sunday, February 27
Tuesday, February 22
I have become acutely aware of our separation. I hover on the outside, looking into two worlds. Not belonging to the groovy, hip has-not’s, and not wanted or accepted with the ones who “have”, I now struggle to find my place in between those worlds. Where once was only the “idea” that we were different- a vaguely held concept that those kind of people believed they were above me-there was now hard fact. And learning this, and knowing this, and understanding this . . . shook me to my core.
I had always wanted to believe these feelings and ideas were in my head. Just a symptom of growing up poor-ish, or at least in less than ideal circumstances. A life lived with that deeply ingrained understanding of your place in the world. I never sat down to define myself. I never intentionally put myself into a category or tried to compartmentalize my life-it was just one of those things that was understood. You grow up “knowing” where you fit in. You go to work “knowing” the kinds of jobs you will have. And you love certain kinds of people “knowing” they are like you . . . and brave are the ones who push hard enough, and take the risk to redefine themselves, because they will always be resisting those who want to push them back into their place so they can be the king of their hill.
It is the way of all species.
Only we humans do it with forethought, and consciousness, and often sometimes cold cruelty, in the desire to make more room for ourselves, so we can open our feathers wider, drop our seeds into more fertile ground, and so our egos have more room to grow like over-fertilized chia-pets, and we often don’t care who we cast into the shade, to wither and die without the sun.
I do it too.
Friday, February 18
Saturday, February 12
Born and raised with other birds like itself, the little bird knew nothing else than being the bird it was. It watched the other birds buzz their wings, and it buzzed inside itself in the places that would move it’s wings too. It felt the buzz in its’ back, the tickle in its very fast heart and because of the way it felt these things, it always assumed it could fly.
So one day, the little bird saw another bird-a different kind of bird, one that had grown up in a different kind of nest all together. A nest made of tinsel, and gold, and very soft things, and the little bird walked to the edge of its own nest, a nest made of twigs, and grass and pokey things and string, and stepped off, believing it would fly to the other bird.
However, as soon as the bird stepped off it’s nest, it fell quickly to the ground. It did not fly at all-it only fell-the way it was always afraid it would. And though it flapped it’s wings, and felt the buzz, and tried so very hard to reach the other bird, it fell straight down and landed underneath it’s nest.
“I don’t understand”, the bird thought to itself. “I don’t understand!” the little bird shouted to the other bird on the ground. “Where are my wings?” it asked, and turned to look at it’s reflection in a pool of water on the ground.
The little bird flexed the muscles on it’s back. It shrugged it’s shoulders and stretched its neck, and puffed out its back, and behind its’ head, the most glorious of wings unfolded; wings three times the size of the other birds. The little bird stretched it’s wings out as far as it could, and they reached over the ground, and across the grass, all the way to the other bird; pulsing with life, and beauty and untaken flight. It wrapped its’ wings around the other bird, and caressed its cheek with its feathered tip.
“Oh bird,” the little bird said to the other one. “I believed I could fly to you,” “but instead, I only fell to the ground.” And the other bird said to the little fallen bird, “I’m sorry little bird, I did not know". "I never have to leave the sky."
Thursday, February 10
This is another little ditty I wrote down one day. It is not entirely memorable or notable, just a freewrite I did to come up with some ideas for songs. I'm kinda busy so haven't had time to post and thought I might put something up. Looks longer than it is . . .
I keep looking back
for what you said I lacked
And I see you and me
and the space between
trying to fill a dream
and this is the place I’m at
trying to see the sky as blue
instead of black and
pull this weight off my back and
if love is my religion
does that mean that I am an atheist
or a realist
and do I have to go to war to fight
for my right
to keep them from pounding on my door
because I bought some Nyquil or Anbesol
or some other shit they say
I can get high from
and I’m standing there and I can barely breathe
and they say they want to look around
and I’m like: “this is America man” . . .
And they say: “exactly”.
And so I do a little pirouette and I say:
"How’s that for a look around?"
and they are not amused
And I’m surprised because
usually I think I’m a pretty funny girl
Or a woman,
I haven’t made up my mind yet
and I can see he’s got his hand on his trigger
and I’m like Man, I am not interested
and he says I can see
you’re not going down without a fight
and I’m like: “Baby . . . I can be your worst nightmare . . .
. . . or your best bad dream”.
And It’s like I’m an invincible wall of
and I’m shooting out one tiny hole of light
but it’s a blinding ray
and so I spend a lot of my time wondering
if I should be dimmer . . .
and if you had a pull chain on your neck
I would think that it was kinda strange
and yet . . . strangely convenient
On - Off
On - Off
Off - off - off.
And now all I have left is god and me
when he’s not too busy answering prayers and
being a poster-child for the latest conflict
in the name of his almighty saving grace
and everyone is just praying and praying
Should I take this job?
Should I buy this TV?
Should I drop this bomb?
And God is just yelling:
He’s a busy guy
Or gal, or woman
I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet
And I’m not sure I want to
Friday, February 4
Wednesday, February 2
I met Mary at the deli on Third Street. She was buying hot dogs. I was buying ham. She looked at me and asked me which were the ones I would buy; the ones with skins or the ones without. Before I could tell her I didn’t really care, she asked me about the cheese and pickled eggs, and told me about her tomatoes that she grew in the sun. She told me these things the way you would tell a friend. I listened while I thought of other things, watching her reflection in the glass that covered the meats and cheeses, the roundness of the glass elongating her neck like a gazelles. She talked to me about her tomatoes, and I wondered if a neck could work like that. In line to pay she came up behind me. “I got the one’s with the skins” she said. “Oh”, I said. What else could I say?
Sometimes I saw her other places. She would ask me things like: what do they do for fun around here? I told her I had never really noticed. She wanted to know where a good place was for her to take her car. I didn’t have one. How would I know a thing like that? Once at the Cafe she asked me what time it was. I looked down at my bare wrist. All I could think to say was that if I wore a watch, I’d always be reminded of where it was I’d rather be.
The Soap Bubble was the last place I saw her alive. She was eating crackers. She sat there, breaking them into tiny pieces, and putting the crumbs on her tongue where they lay like dry, brown snowflakes. She sat there with her tongue sticking out like that, just staring at her clothes. Once in a while she pulled her tongue back in and the snowflake would disappear. I watched her do this for a while, swallowing each piece like it was wet sandpaper. It made me hungry.
I asked her if I could have a cracker and she gave me the whole box. I took them and pushed them into my mouth, two, three at a time. She kept staring straight ahead while I chewed and swallowed. I stared at the box, trying to think of something to say. I reached my hand into the box and circled my fingers around a broken piece rocking it back and forth between my fingers and looked at her again. I wished I could climb inside with the socks and underwear that tumbled around inside. I wished I was under her car’s tires outside the front door, a sort of second page story in tomorrow’s news. I wished it were that easy. Instead I said, “good crackers”, and stuffed another one in my mouth as proof. I crushed it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth and waited. She didn't speak and so I said, “I hope your clothes come out really clean,” and left. I left her sitting on the table like that, watching her things, turning in circles.
The last time I saw her was in the paper. She was dead. The paper had a little picture of her and so I knew who it was; it was a good picture. A couple days later I went to her wake. I took my place in line with the all the others-waiting my turn to grieve. I nodded solemnly and listened to things like: such a loss . . . she was so young . . . such a tragic thing. I took it all in, saving those words for times when words would fail me. Finally it was my turn. I thought she looked just fine. Her hair was shiny, her clothes were clean, her cheeks were pink and full of cotton. She looked like she’d just been born. I touched her arm, the silk fabric of her blouse sliding over her cool skin. I wrapped my hand around her wrist and shook it gently. Wake up I whispered. I took her other hand in mine and shook her again. Wake up I said.
Tuesday, February 1
When did hello become: "You have a great body". When did: "Hi, can I buy you a
drink?" turn to: "I think you're sexy". When did it become okay to greet me with: "I like
your build". And what makes you think you can ask if you can touch me, (as you reach
your arm out towards me, your index finger erect, as if you were poking a piece of
cooking meat to test and see if it is "done".
You think these things represent me? You think I find this endearing? You think I am my
arms, my ass and my little titties which you can't take your eyes off of as I speak? You
think you make my heart skip it’s lonely beat or thaw the frost that builds thicker and
thicker inside, until it's walls close in, and there isn’t any more
room left inside for your meat?
It makes my tight firm skin crawl. It makes me want to fold in on myself, until there’s
nothing left for you to see but what’s inside. It makes me want to eat Twinkies and
Doritos and Chunky bars until my cheeks bloat out, my walk slows, and my flesh jiggles.
What will you think of me then? And will you say hello? Or nothing at all.