I'm sure I've probably posted this before, but here it is again. It's good. And when I say good, I mean good as in speaking of hard grace, hard-won forgiveness.
Cranky dripping Monday, Sitting in the back and wishing I could sleep. Getting in their faces because they can't either. It's too much, all this dripping. Better is a rooftop than a castle with a cranky woman; Better anywhere than a classroom of discontents. Nothing is blessing; it's all pushing. Labor and pain and pushing. The night endures forever and Where the heck is the morning? Attitude. She got an attitude already, Says fifth period. And I smile, To prove them wrong And to warn them with a sassy smirk of attitude. If I can hold out two, even three, hours; This too shall pass. But tomorrow is Tuesday And I hate Tuesdays.
As I get closer to endings, space becomes more and more full for me. There is a certain significance to the angles of this desk’s corners, the tilt of the picture, the colors of the few dark reds. Sometimes I stare at it, imprinting it on my brain because I am sentimental and it is still very much imprinted on my heart. And this sentimental girl can only take so much. So much crumbling and breaking, daily decay of my created order. The constant slide into chaos, the constant ending of good things. I wash dishes every day and then I eat again. I arrange and center, lighting candles, ‘creating the atmosphere’ I secretly whisper to myself, knowing this joy too childish to share in seriousness. And the people fill the room, the smells fill the room, the candles flicker and beckon, but only to go out, be silenced, be absorbed by the old musty walls of the cold house. It ends and again I wash dishes, throw away spent candles, sweep the floor, and I am alone. The silence of a weary ...
Hi all you Internet friends. I have been thinking a lot about age: being young and being old. I feel old when I shop for Spanx (yes, that did happen), when I rent storage units, when I buy coffee at Shell stations so I can do fourteen-hour roadtrips, when I go to bed at ten-thirty, when I know what pro-rated rent is, when I can book plane tickets without a hitch. I feel young when I use the handle of a large cast iron skillet to pry open the hood of my car at the said Shell station, when I wear beaded moccasins without socks, when I listen to my grandpa's stories and realize most of his life happened before I was born, when my bare face sunburns and I don't wash my hair for three days. Age is a funny thing; it is relative and it is existential and it is beyond me. I feel that I will always be young, that I am somehow innately youthful, that muscles will last, that hair won't thin, that my stories won't grow cold. But then I think about my grandparents; I will on...
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