I promised myself I would write about it I have forgotten it.
What a whirlwind: work and laundry and legs all akimbo. I forgot to condition my hair.
There is a grapefruit sitting on the apple crate.
God
plants, flowers are so beautiful. I have placed them all around the
apartment and they shine out at me from every corner, every open surface
that is flat and brown and welcoming. He is learning how to make
oatmeal in the microwave.
Living together is learning
that I am not the only person who matters all of the time and wondering,
sometimes, ashamedly, if I am ready to learn.
So we
compromise: We listen to Yo La Tengo in the evening when really we both
want something different but it is in between and close enough to each
of our preferences that it works, even though it is not entirely
satisfactory on either side. But the fact that it works makes it
satisfactory.
That woman glared at me so furiously I
thought she would enjoy watching me die. And all I did was walk into her
laundromat. I do not understand but I also remembered this, on the
subway ride home to the apartment: I am capable of meanness, too.
I promised myself I would write about it I have remembered it.
I
can be mean, too, I am not so special as to be kind, always. I try,
and, for the most part, I think, I do okay, but I have felt that anger
welling up inside of me so big I have punched a wall, or any of a number
of mattresses, or kicked the empty trash cans in front of the garage
outside. and sometimes I am compelled, nearly, to say mean things. I
have only felt this way a few times in my life and each time it has been
in regard to someone with whom I am incomparably close.
I could come up with any number of reasons. Most easily a list of
names and a declaration of privacy. Independence. Maybe I'm just afraid.
Regardless. I carry the Falcon with me
everywhere that I go.
He
brings me lifesavers, tofu, organic oats. an inflatable dinosaur. I
place it in the bottom of a bowl full of water and wait for it to grow.
