3.31

[while my mother languishes in March, allow me to speed backward into the future]

I once was made fun of for her. She doesn't know. She can't--I would die of insincerity. But it's true blue.
What I said was that she has kissable lips. Really kissable; they're not like no other lips you ain't never seen. By which I mean to say that sometimes when I'm talking to her I forget to look at her eyes and instead I think about grabbing the back of her head and pulling her in to a really passionate kiss. Then I realize how very unkissable that thought is and how tremendously tired and old I'm getting and I just sit back down in the back of my kind and I don't think about her lips for a while.

3.29

[My last post was my five hundredth. I think that's appropriate. I don't think I've written entirely enough actual description. Mostly, it has been emotional or situational, completely ignoring the actual problems of humanity for the more hopeful utopian situations where people's appearance and intelligence don't matter.
I hope what I can do in the future is write about some of the grit beneath humanity's fingernails.]

World Civilizations: A Found Poem

Oh, yes, paper money. Mm hm.
Not very many people do it first well.
Medieval synthesis--

At the time we're talking about here, there's like
three different nodes during this medieval global spike.
We actually do a really bad job, often,
of predicting who's going to be important in the long run.
I mean, there's just - massive amounts.

You don't want to have to carry a lot of heavy

gold or silver.

You have very - a lot of implications.
Family life.
Oh, I mean, lots of them were doing it.
Part of what makes this possible is that
the scholars don't come out against it.

3.27

Of course I noticed she was black. People who claim they don't notice are lying to you. Anyway, she's black enough to have the color bleed into the whites of her eyes and the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet--the last places color goes before it peters out entirely and has nowhere else at all. Her teeth are almost violently white against her skin and lips. She looks like brushed velvet, reflecting the light of some distant lamp your aunt gave you when you moved into your new apartment, and when she takes off the velvet coat (who owns those anymore) and drapes it across the couch, all you can think is how it matches what you feel about her skin just at that moment. That's how black she is, and if you didn't notice, you're blind.
I noticed, all right. But I didn't think about what it meant until after I had kissed her out on the street under the night lights, me so white I seemed to glow, her so black she seemed to sink. I thought about it then--the picture we must make in the neon from the bar and the saccharine yellow from the corner lamp post--and I said to myself "by God, if my father could see me now--" and that ruined it for me; the knowledge of other racisms and other hates ruined it for me, and I began picturing how my own racisms would grow and my own hates would develop until I could no longer kiss the black girl underneath the lamp post in the dark of a night into which neither of us wanted to stray. So I held her tight for what time I had and whispered her name to myself until it was all I could hear: "Ivory."

3.26

He didn't seem concerned to me, when I saw him. It could be because I can see through the facade he wears. I'm not satisfied with the tired explanation he gave me. I'm discerning in my taste.

You see, I'm a woman who can't be fooled. I see the thin veneer that society layers over everything it owns like a syrup on pancakes. I am just exactly discerning enough to not enjoy the popular films or accept the fads or find joy in celebrities. Everything is fake.

I guess when he came to me today, I was't surprised. In a way, I saw it coming. But everything was so smarmy and fake. He wanted to know if I was ok. He wanted to know if I would feel sad about him. He said it wasn't my fault, that he just needed room to make decisions. He wants to be friends. He thinks I'm great, but just not for him--he would screw me up. I've got news for him, and boy will he be surprised to hear it. I've known for a month how he wants to break up. He's been flirting with Janet pretty openly at this point. And he doesn't want to be friends, because he was hardly my friend before.

Anyway, I'm done deceiving myself.

3.24

Is it funny to love someone wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly? I hope that's why you're laughing. I didn't mean to bear my heart just then, but now that I've done it, I didn't mean for it to be a joke. I take it back. Really, I do. No, I feel nothing for you, really. We're "just friends." Maybe we can see each other around. I have no burning desire to see you. You don't complete me. I'm not yours. I mean it. I mean it. If I say it enough, will you believe me?
Go away! I don't love you anymore: I decided. It's supposed to be that simple. If you ever decide to love me, too, I might be persuaded to change my mind, but until then I must insist that I told you a lie.

(He loves me? When did that happen? What a ridiculous string of adjectives. He's so cute. Oh, he means it. Well, this changes things. How am I supposed to respond? "I'm sorry, I don't feel that way about you?" "You just don't do the trick for me?" "I can't promise you anything until I know you better?" And he hedges. Hems and haws. No decision, really, just a fearful fishing line in a lake that has wise fish. Oh, I wish I didn't have to break his heart.)

What's that? You again!? I thought you were in Sweden. Denmark, was it? It hadn't even crossed my mind. Oh, that's fascinating. Lunch? Hm, I'm busy, I think. No, I'm definitely busy. Martha asked me--Oh, that's right, you don't know Em, do you? Well, she asked me to pick up our kids from daycare. You didn't know! Oh, one is three and the other is two. It's been about four years now, yes. You left so long ago for your--yes, your degree. Wow, we really do need a lunch sometime. I don't even know anything about your life now. So much has changed.

(I'll say. I finally came around to his way of thinking and now I find he's come round to mine. Was there a point when we intersected? When we both liked each other just the same? Was there a time when we would have worked? I want to tell him I fell in love with the idea of him, but I know just what he'll say.)

You love me? When did that happen?

3.23

A note: counter-wise.
Darling dearest,
I know not when I shall return. Perhaps later. Perhaps not. The decision is purely mine. Strangely enough, I have only just now realized my folly; I forgot to allow myself the luxury of decision. Surely I should have seen from the start that allowing myself to be led by you was a poor plan, but there's no accounting for love, now is there? No, no there is not.
My discovery was of the strangest kind ever I have seen. When sitting in divine repose upon the porcelain stool, I came to an epiphany--the sort only achieved once every lifetime. The gist of my thought was this: I owe you nothing.
So I'm leaving.
When I find out a reason of necessity for my return, I shall at once. Until that time, consider yourself alone.

So long, and keep sweet, my sweet.

3.22

I've gone to sleep. The sun sank deep into the valley until it disappeared and all that was left was the last limpid sunlight draining from the sky.
Too poetic. The sun went down: so did I.

3.21c

Asking "what must I do to get into heaven?" is like saying "we've gone to enough movies to warrant sex" or "I have gotten you chocolate, so you should kiss me," or "how many roses does it take to get married?"
Why does our vocabulary for dating contain infatuation, desire, twitterpation, lust, commitment, and love when our religion has only the words wear, hear, go, eat, say, think, have, want, act, be, and do?

Our view of God's love is too much what when it should be why.

3.21b

In Xanadu did Khubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree, and all his inspiration ran down to the sea. Completely lost for what to do, poor Khubla sat and cried. As an author, he was done when his poor muse had died.

[I keep writing things that I really like and I keep feeling like I'll never pass myself. Then I do. I don't think this is because I'm getting better, but I'm changing my tastes.]

3.21

Cornchips.
I have a piece of advice for you, if you're listening. Lady, you're too stuck in your ways. Really. Your ways. You keep getting into situations that will challenge you and you just run from them as quickly as you can. You throw yourself headfirst into love, and then pull the chute as soon as there's any risk at all. I'm mixing metaphors. Suffice it to say that I've watched you hurt yourself too many times, and I'm tired of you coming back to our room and complaining about it. Another boy broke up with you? That's your own darn fault, Lady.
So, here's the summation of all my advice: cornchips.
They're normal. They're standard.

Next time, try a walking taco with fries instead, and when he asks you to marry him, don't cut and run.

3.20

[I swear my blog updater isn't working. I don't ever see you guys' updates on my RSS feed anymore. I will check y'alls' blogs laters.]

I can't feel the music coursing through my veins. I can't feel the heart of the painter. I can't see the beauty in a single second. I can't fall in love with a photograph. I can't stare at the stars all night. I can't get lost in her eyes. I can't cry for a statue. I can't. I can't.

I can smile when she gasps from the love in my kiss. And I do, as if it were a choice.

[Portfolio. Short posts. I think we've lost Brooke and Lyssa. I think my girlfriends have never read my blog more than . . . once or twice. It's you guys and my mother and Kyle and Manda. Hm. I think I blog for me.]
[Edit: I posted this originally as 2.14 for some reason.]

3.19

Hull breach? Shut up. We're still floating, aren't we? Put the nose into the wind and see if our cannon will send them down before they send us.

3.18

I take everything outside and I put it inside. I take everything inside and put it out. Switched, the sofa and desk sit in the rain. Switched, the tomato plant and garden shed look displeased at my cabinets.

3.16

I can't pick her up. Not that I'm unable, but she doesn't allow it. Power. She's insecure without it. I'm clueless with it.
Allow me to paint a scene for you, now that you know: I picked her up. Just once. Just a little. I spun her around in a hug. Was it over from that point on, or did something deeper happen? Can my human brain really allow me to blame something so artificial? So superficial? So very, very dumb?

3.15b

Scarmarella dances with me in the moonlight of new days and old. Turn, we, in the night of a snapping black hoarfrost. Spin, I yell; spin, Scarmarella, and she throws herself, fast as wit and faster still, until my eyes are full of her cool black lines, pure in the moonlight. Her hair wraps around her head, but on the reversal I see the glint of her smile in the cool of a quiet. Moment. Scarmarella mine, but soon another's, for we are both children of the day. Born under a sweaty sky, was I. Born on a tossing sea, was she. We match, like a set of saucers too long used, and taken out of our cupboard, we steal the night for our own. No light for Scarmarella, mine. No light for her to lift and twist. No light for me, or she, or I. No light, no light. No.

But.

The spin stops. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and she sweeps it from her eyes. Her umber skin sinks deep in the night. My aching breast beats twice and twice and twice and twice left right left right left right left right. I swear she hears it in my voice; I say "My Scar--," She says
But nothing. She has no words. She pulls me over, holds me tight, and whispers quiet to me there: "I'm leaving soon. I'll see you, swear. On bones and birth and sand and surf, on quiet, loud, and home, and hearth." Her voice breaks fair. The new day ends, the old begins. She walks away before my before my before my heart explodes.

Done stealing night, we day again, but for a time, until the night looms and the moon draws nigh, when Scar my Scar my Scarmarella will meet in darkness here with
I.

3.15

The open door is waiting for me, of course. I could have just walked out. It was my opportunity, of course, to avoid making the same old stupid mistake. I suppose I could still walk out. Let me check. It's right there, taunting me. Shame. She's tangled me with her limbs--I don't suppose I can get away now.

3.14

Beatrice, for whatever reason, I cannot know why: "I love you."
Me, foolishly: "Really? That warms my heart!"
Beatrice, cold: "What?"
Me, as before: "Yeah! What, should I not be excited?"
Beatrice.
Me, with no idea what just happened: "Bea, what?"
Beatrice, angry: "You didn't say it back!"
Me, trying to control my tone: "Of course not."
Beatrice, explosive: "What the h---?"
Me, controlling better now: "Beatrice, it's not a competition. I'm not trying to win our relationship."
Beatrice, acerbic: "I said I love you, and you don't say it back?"
Me, worried: "How much would it mean, Bea, if I just said it by reflex? How much would it mean if I said it because I felt like I had to return your statement? How much would it mean if I let you define the pace of my emotion? How much would it mean if I just said whatever I thought would make you happy? How much would it mean if I lied for a good cause?"
Beatrice, terse: "It would mean you loved me."
Me, tired: "Of course. Of course."
Beatrice, growing now, larger than life, larger than the room she's in, larger than the Beatrice I've known for years and known for what seems like ten seconds now: "I'm not stupid, Terrence. It wouldn't be magic. But you're afraid of the word. You're afraid of the thought. You're afraid of the need. You won't let go and throw yourself into a relationship with me, but you're willing to let me throw myself at you until I break myself like a wave on the immovable shore. And I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid. I know that's what's going on here, but you know what, Terry? You know what? I'm willing to try you anyway. I'm willing to risk, because I think you're worth it and we're worth it and we deserve a chance, and I'm about fed up to here with you backing out and running away and walling yourself off. I don't give a d--- who hurt you or who you still feel for or what haunts your steps or what crawls through your dreams. I don't care, Terry, because I should be worth more to you than that. Because I'm alive, and here, and now. I'm immediate. I'm real."
Me, silently:
Beatrice, with winter in her voice: "If you're not willing to at least give me that chance, then I guess I'll just keep loving you. Because that's how it works, Terrance. When you find the right one, she doesn't just run away because you're inconvenient.
Me, crying:
Beatrice, like the sound of a January sun: "Stop lumping me in with her."

3.13

I can't lift my hands for fear of touching the sun. I stoop to avoid burning my face. I crawl to feel my way.
There is no glory of a life in sin.