here I go nearly blowing my ears out because I forgot to turn down the volume before putting on my headphones. here I go preparing to be up late at night, though I had all evening to write.
I don't feel very poetic today, nor loquacious.
The yellow bike is, slowly, being assembled in the living room. It looks like a work of art; it looks like we chose to buy this old bike and put it in the living room of the apartment in order to prove that we are cooler than other people who don't decorate with things like yellow bikes in their living rooms. The bike will carry us to subways faster than would our feet, and maybe the natural food store miles away when I run out of beneficial bacteria, or tofu. That is the purpose for the yellow bike in the living room. It is beautiful.
there is so much water and it did not fall from the sky. wind carried it. I remember teaching middle schoolers about wave action on the beaches of Maine. a thing is changed by knowing about it.
If I write about it in pretty ways I can make it sound so perfect. I do not know if my writing is a reflection of the truth that I sometimes fail to see or if it is a reflection of the way I wish things would be or if it is a projection of what I want the world to see or if it is completely devoid of a sense of reality.
She spoke in iambic pentameter of wind and fires and a young man dead. I wondered if all news anchors are trained to speak in iambic pentameter. I wonder if their instructors described it that way. I doubt that Shakespeare did. What I would give to eat at his table! Distaste of so many years turned to grudgeless respect. If for no other reason than the man knew how to play.
I may have overdosed on games of bananagrams. and hurricane coverage on the tiny TV. I care.
I do not have to explain myself, always, though I want to, because I feel my intentions are righteous most of the time and I want so badly for people to know that I'm not coming from a bad place. What the fuck ever that means. Some people do come from a bad place, and they're alright! What are the qualifying criteria, I wonder? Sometimes I think maybe I have, in the past, met them and then I shake off the thought. "No. The truly bad stuff is worse." The ever-present appetite to be more than the lowest common denominator. As if that would make us any less.
The hurricane hit Cuba, Haiti, the Dominican Republic too. We need to care for ourselves first but let's not overlook this. It isn't kind.
I am cranky this evening, confrontational. I suppose I know why but it still troubles me (why?) to admit that my body has any control over these things. I just realized that I have never read a first-person account of PMS and that this is, perhaps, because it is one of the many other of things that we find uncomfortable, or tasteless, or that we do not want to admit to. And why not. How much a man could learn about me, about any woman, if he listened to this experience. How much women could learn from each other.
Perhaps it is just because I have never Googled "a first-person account of PMS."
Language! I remember the professor who said m-dashes should be reserved for only the most pressing of sentiments. Another, earlier on in my schooling: "Words are so powerful. Use them wisely."
I am perennially a four year old, gushing over flowers and little brown birds in the bushes and asking, always, to the point of annoying other people though that was never my intention (there I go again...), why?
Earlier today he suggested that I take a break from words. I had never considered it!