I wrote a joke

I wrote a joke I could tell it to you.


I woke up angry should I tell you why.


Do you even remember any more do you.




Secretly I have worried since before I made it that I was making a mistake. Now that I've made it I continue to worry. I wanted to wait, I promise. I have no excuses. It's just that I forgot that my life was my own for so long.






Now that I am remembering magic is afoot.

In yoga class last week I decided on a whim to try chaturanga without any modifications, even though I'd never been able to hold the pose in all my years of doing yoga. Would you believe it but I moved easily into the pose. My muscles held. Hell, they were barely taxed. And here I'd been doing the pose with my knees down for years. Who knows how long I've failed to use strength that I didn't know I had.

Since discovering my ability to do chaturanga I've been doing it every day. Not only that, but I can nearly do an arm balance with one leg propped up on my tricep and the other stretched out behind me. My teacher said that I already can do the pose; all that's left is for me to trust my strength and lean in.


On one more yoga related note, I noticed that my balance is much better when I'm standing elevated on a four-by-six block and have no choice but to fall down or stand firm in tree pose. This somewhat discredits my theory that I don't perform well under pressure.




Since I arrived back at the apartment this afternoon Wilson has velcroed himself to my side. When I left for my bike ride he tried to follow me out the door and when I returned an hour later he was sitting there waiting right where I'd left him. He twined around me while I stretched on the floor and then sat immediately outside the shower while I rinsed off. Now he is curled up against my thigh where I sit on the loveseat writing. Whenever I get up to move into the bedroom--no matter how late it is or how deeply he is sleeping--Wilson will get up and follow me onto the bed.



I seem to be in the habit of allowing into my life people who are unable or unwilling to be there with me when I ache. I have used this to confirm my own dark suspicions: that no one could possibly love me the whole way down. Or, at least, no one but myself and maybe Wilson and other non-human animals of all stripes. Perhaps, though, it's just one hell of a defense mechanism.

Additionally, I have a tendency not to tell anyone when, or how much, I am aching.


You said you wanted me to explode up out of the water, like a synchronized dancer propelled from beneath. I started in with some flutter kicks; I turned my face toward the sky and I stretched my arms upward and then you ducked under the water, grabbed onto my ankles, and pulled. When you resurfaced to see me blubbering, you couldn't deduce any explanation for why I appeared to be drowning--except, perhaps, that I simply wasn't as strong of a swimmer as I'd thought.



It's not great but it's a start.




There is a story behind this scar do you want me to tell it.


I made a mistake what can we do about it.


Do you even remember any more, do you. 




The first time I told it, I cracked myself up so hard that I cried.