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lips like sugar

October 12, 2010

I’m sitting at my kitchen table, curling my bare feet around its black iron claws. I’m waiting for my coffee to cool. We’ve been out of milk since probably Wednesday, so I’ve been drinking it black. Joel smelled the milk carton and said that the milk was still good, expiration dates are more like guidelines anyhow and judging from the smell this milk was only about to go bad, but. I can drink my coffee black.

A boy is in the shower and a boy is sleeping on the couch in the tonton sleeping bag. It’s so warm that I have to take off my little gray sweater before I sip my coffee. I made blueberry bran muffins because Jess and Ross and I are going to have a breakfast club. I’m the crazy girl that makes dandruff drawings, and blueberry bran muffins. I also highly advocate smoothies, because they’re portable and delicious and apparently you can have your servings of kale in them without ever tasting it. Eating kale without eating kale? Priceless.

I wanted to write to check in with myself and the universe, but it’s slow going this morning. I think if I had a less frantic job I’d be writing more, but the constant tommy gun pace of my office is almost brain deadening. I have to learn to have it all; god knows it only offers more material.

The sound of the traffic here is immense. Leaving the windows open lets gorgeous sun warmed night cooled air in, and the noise of a million billion scrabbling bugs taking their machines to work. Today I am thankful not to be one of them. Today I am just so pleased to have a job I can walk to on glorious days.

I feel better all the time. I made an hours long personal history drawing on Sunday. I sat on the back steps and drew and thought and wrote tiny obscure notes to myself. I don’t think it’s finished, but it sure has lots in it already. I didn’t put any pressure of any sort on myself, I didn’t think of anyone ever seeing it but me, I didn’t try to filter anything, I just put it down as it came. Now there is a large piece of paper in the world that basically serves as the answer key to my soul. I drew all my happinesses and sadnesses and dreams and fears. I drew them just as they are, looking simple, looking crude, and I knew they were true and I was ok with it. I didn’t even have to analyze their origins or plot their demise, I just sat with them and thought about their existence.

Everything I put down feels like a cliché to me, because it’s a cliché of me.

I learned things.

I learned that I both love and long for and hate and dread going to extremes. It seems that everything I want, I want but not too much of. One of the soul stoking images is a balloon alone in the sky; one of the terror inducing images is a balloon alone in the sky on its way to space.

There was a woman,

a mother tied to selfish others by both wrists and the ground floor by both ankles

a flamboyant voyeur dying wasted alone on a brittle bed of solo adventure

a silicone saddled sex toy

a lumplet who had tried and was rebuffed, and curled angry in on herself like a paper in flame

There are a lot of people I’m afraid of becoming.

On the other hand, there are a lot of people whose shoes I rush to fill.

There were stars and trees and a gypsy wagon with a carriage lamp; there were leaves and paths and devils and angels, and a scarf going down a lane through the fog. There were women with blossom amber lips and shadow children and men with straight shoulders, and music and music.

There was nothing I could do about anything except sit and balance and breathe.

Sip coffee.

Listen to pink floyd.

Pet cat head.

Trust own self, to avoid the prefab personality boxes and live on the edge of the greased dinner plate.

Kind of wish for a motorcycle, so as to immediately test the edge of the greased dinner plate.

Wait for all things to come with sunkissed warm toast shoulders and pinpoint freckled nose.

Grab pull in punch punch punch down.

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