while eating cheesy mac...

today there was a round table, no one sat at the head. i headed the discussion, but not much was said. reading. a handful of teenage boys laughed at the part where the woman had her baby in the kitchen, bare bottomed. first they laughed that a birth would happen in a kitchen. then they laughed because the boy reading couldn't pronounce "bottomed". i don't think he understood what the word meant in that context. i'm not sure he even knows what context means.

i didn't know how to laugh.

the story is about a family who lived during the Great Depression. one boy likened our economy, our times, to theirs. i almost know how to laugh at that, which only makes me wonder about my own disconnect. do i understand the context of this economic situation? do i know what all this means?

mine pregnancy one

The things I miss:

breathing in swirls of blue, tasting my breath as sweet or bitter.
clothes that fit.


The things I wish I could do without for good:

emotions that choke, that lurch up out of no where.
lack of olfactory function.


The things I am grateful for:

apparently women usually get sick? but apparently i don't.
people finally don't care whether or not i'm skinny, or at least they keep their comments to themselves.


The things I'll be ready to let go of:

the need to sleep for 8 hours, not including a nap.
my heart beating faster than normal (or so it seems) and having a harder time breathing (or so it seems).


That's all for today.

But

(because i wanted to say something, but can't center enough, so borrowing from the other day when i could: this will do for now)

You have?
Sure, hasn't everyone?
Well. Confused. I don't know.
I didn't think so.
I don't know you. Not that
well.
How can I believe you?
You look like a pothead.
Whatever that means.
Aparently everyone has their
secrets.
My eyes are generally red.
What does that mean?
Especially in a world where
God is dead.
Whatever that means.
"With greater power
comes greater responsibility."
Age is power, supposedly.
I don't have to eat the spinach now --
not if I don't want to.
Limp. Soft.
It will not go inside me.
I can choose this time.
Supposedly.
An old man sits,
soft and limp.
Not one, but two,
strong young men stand.
Circling him, surrounding him.
Hovering. Heckling.
Leave him alone!
Two shout, as we drive by.
Too afraid to stop.
Or careless. Maybe carefree.
He's not our old man.
He doesn't belong to me.
I have other problems,
on this side of my white-picket
balcony.
I'm suppsed to write this book,
a precious look.
All I can think is:
What the fuck does it all mean?

for kins. and then for jesse. and then for dot dot dot

you are supposed to be here. how do i know? because doblets of water are dripping off the leaves of the trees outside. they are red and yellow and green -- not quite ready to dance down. not quite autumn yet. my balcony is soggy because the rain gutter is overflowing. the lights flickered off and on again. you usually bring the rain, but this time? you're not here. so who brought it in their pocket?

and then you, jesse. muni came out when you popped in. now she's hiding again. and i'm laughing because if she is my deamon, what does that say? and if you haven't read the books yet, will you even get the reference?

last night i knew it was time to finally go to bed when i dropped all the tortillas on the ground.

distracted. again.

focusing enough to know i'm distracted.

strange when coughing tastes like something, though you don't know what. and you haven't eaten anything in awhile, so it can't be residual flavor. is that what my insides taste like? not like acid -- that's different. this is earthy and dry. this is the seasoning of my flesh.

and the sound of time ticks on.

to be sick is not a wonderful thing. it is a wonderful excuse to sit around in your pajamas all day, though.

focusing.

nevermind.

hoookaaah

my head is full of sweet hookah smoke and i know i'm gonna have to use it fast because pressing hard, leering close, is the old face of reality. there it is *points* i can see it through the shifting, lovely haze.

use it for what? i'm not sure.

i have a house, that's one thing i know we work for. it's important to have a roof over your head and a floor to sit on (or a couch, or chairs, if one is inclined in that direction). these things are important to have so we're not just sitting in a park or on the cement. it's hard to sleep in the park, or to smoke hookah on cement. it's hard to make food without a house -- refrigeration is key, as is a stove. important.

in america, it's important to have a vehicle too. most of the time, and in most places in america. work. school. socialization. meetings. so we have to work for that too, because self-transportation isn't free. neither is insurance. nor gas. blah blah.

food. clothes. shoes. domesticated animals. caged animals, or ones that live in tanks.

then there's the entertainment we use to distract ourselves from that old face. from it's constant, ever-leering face. this too is a necessity, though some may disagree.

posted before i'm ready... more to say but cut short. reality sets in sooner than expected.

so i don't forget...

If the song of the bird outside on your balcony
rings higher and sweeter than the song of your phone,
if the arms and the blossoms of trees are your home,
and the sky is your comfort, where ever you roam --
blessed are you by me,
one whom you'll never know,
together we'll share this love
in the fields of words that we sow.

~me~

"our hands are tied"

trite phrases. what to do with them? a woman's voice gets a little flustered on the other end of the line.

"we can't do that because we don't know if you're who you say you are."

"oh." my voice is dumbfounded because i thought there were ways to prove your identity over the phone, by giving little treasures of information out, piece by precious piece.

that's when her voice peaks, as if my simple puff of a word is an accusation. which it's not.

"well there's just nothing we can do about the situation. our hands are tied."

and i'm thinking, what does it really mean -- to have one's hands tied. how many of us have ever had our hands truly tied in our pasts? not of our own free wills, of course.

and then for a second i'm having visions in my head of struggling. my hands and feet are bound tight and my muscles hurt from trying to wriggle loose. i'm exhausted. i'm gagged. i'm panicking and crying, not so much from my pain but from my confusion. what's going on?

back in real life, i'm still on the phone, and the lady sounds somewhat panicked. maybe she does recognize the meaning of what she's saying. or, my guess is that she's hiding behind a phrase she's heard and used a million times before, but has never stopped to think about.

flippant. frivolous. afraid.

people should own their words.

it just kills me when they don't.