Monday, September 7, 2015
less of a woman
The dreams left me as aggressively as they came. I sleep not well but thickly until Wilson baps my face awake.
For the first time in the nearly two years since I've lived in this apartment the bar beside my building is playing a good song.
It was hot when I climbed onto my bike and I forgot I was wearing floppy sandals. My shoes and water were in the pack on my back but at that point I was too hungry to change or to drink. No choice but to ride.
I guess I'll eat crabs next time.
Fuck you youtube for putting an advertisement right in the middle of this Mazzy Star album. I'm trying to be somewhere.
I am misanthrope.
I am trying this on for size. I am questioning whether kindness (or a certain kind of it) is a medium of oppression.
I am trying to care less, at least in some circumstances.
I am not entirely satisfied.
Am I less of a woman because I don't want to be pregnant?
Perhaps someday someone will look at this blog and think "If only she had been more disciplined. Perhaps then her stanzas would have been properly formed and the visions she had for her poetry would have actually translated themselves through her fingertips."
But at the same time fuck off.
I am trying to do it; I am trying to sit with myself. Lord it's so hard when you've been away for so long.
The truth is much harder to say than smiling. I'm sorry. That creek was contaminated by the landfill I just know it.
Perhaps I'll swim to that duck blind in the middle of the river and make it a home. I'll hang marine plants from the thatch, take off my clothes, grow a few fins, and call it my own.