i can't even begin to process you. i like to put things in little neat boxes, to analyze them into oblivion until i've got it all figure out. it was all fine before you, i knew what little cliches everyone fit into. well, everyone but me. i was the(more) special one, i was a mystery that i'd given up solving and it made me feel special, that i was an uncrackable code.
The only thing I can say is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" and the tears fall so fast and the salt stains my cheeks. But I'm so calm, so composed even while sobbing, and that frightens me even more than the apologies do.
(more) I told you that I would find you, but I can't even find myself. I can't, I can't—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.(less)
Because I write so much and so often, the worlds in my head are just as real as the world I live in.
And they often overlap and bisect the world I live in in strange ways.
For instance, sometimes I come across something in my waking hours, a(more)nd it's in one of my written worlds. It doesn't inspire me to write about it because I've already written it. It exists in the world in my head as physically as it exists in the world I live in.
But then that messes with me a little. Because I've never seen this thing before. But what if I somehow willed it into being, without being aware of it?
What if that's how the world actually works?
Think about it.
Think about it and maybe it will become true.
There's no rules to this creative wild wonderful sphere.
The way you think about something directly affects how you interact with it.
But, you say, but magic doesn't exist! Surely with so many authors writing about it and thinking about it for so many years, it exist by now, according to your rules!
And I respond, who are you to say it doesn't? I choose to see magic in the various unexplained phenomena that occur around me every day. Exhibit a: I didn't die today. Exhibit b: Things change. Always. Everywhere. Slowly, quickly, it doesn't matter.
Because things change.
And maybe that's what writing is really about. Not willing random artifacts into existence, but changing and developing new ideas. Because without ideas, what are we? Without the ability to communicate and change and grow?
Less than animals, surely, for even animals adapt.
So no, I don't have an answer.
Her eyes narrowed like a road when it goes from 4 to 2 lanes. Her nostrils were flaring with her silent-pissy breathing. Leta was perched on her couch and already half-way through a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Short-French-manicured nails dug into her the arm of her love-seat. Someday she'd(more) move out of this studio into a place where she'd have a couch, and two bathrooms. A place with a view of the bay or the city scape. Leta she couldn't give a fuck-less if she had to fuck her way up the ladder either. Leta loved sport or career fucking. None of this had any bearing on her current mood.
It was the Australian's last day. 2 days ago he'd fucked her senseless. Radio silence at 3pm had blood pressure high enough she snorted a valium. You can't give someone dick like that, make their body writhe, and take it away so quickly she thought. He had pulled her hair like he meant it. Choked her with just the right amount of pressure on the throat working his thumb and fingers on the veins in her neck making her cum like she was being paid, filmed, or both.
"I best that accent talked himself into someone else's cunt," she spat into her empty studio reinforcing that she'd sleep alone tonight. (Cunt was his word.) She liked to be tangled in well-muscled-limbs. The smell of testosterone lulling her to sleep. She had a trilogy of guys she fucked regularly but there were a few guys with "stunt-cocks" called upon to erase a shitty day at work or forget about how her heart still ached for a furry jewish kid in NY. She poured more wine, ripped-a-bowl, and got in-bed her ego taunting her. She fired off one last text bcc-ing 3-standbys. (less)
i can't even feel
the hands around me
the touch, abounding
they brush, hearts sounding
above all this madness
the pain and the sadness
(more) i've found certain gladness
behind the sharp glass;
and though it may cut you
leave you bleeding, diced up, you
will find its easier to see
when you've had a reason to doctor your eyes.(less)
I can't even begin to get'ta typing up this assignment, this eight page monstrosity on the nexus of hip hop and politics, law and social change and Blackness in America.
He doesn't /want/ to hear my truest thoughts on the matter.
(more) I had hope for this class, signing up.
Then I saw my classmates, my so called peers; all those that would be going on this journey of Hip Hop and Politics and Social Change with me. White. All White. The Professor and I share a city-- but he's White too. No, I lie, there's two other Black kids, and we sit together. An island of silence. Our own acts of disobedience, instrumentalist against being urged to "speak up".
The essay prompt call for analysis of "Fuck da Police" (What is "da"? Surely you meant "tha"...like the actual song? Or maybe you meant "Sound of DA police?" Or maybe it's all interchangeable, right?)
Hipsters with unwashed, matted, locs -blondie-dreds, a Berkeley staple- draw distinctions, big, thick, mutually exclusive lines, between rap and ~*CONSCIOUS RAP*~. You can't be gangsta and self-aware, of course.
One special snowflake assures the class that Eminem (her fave!1!) puts more thought into his lyrics than Jay-Z. Her authority? Well, being from the 'burbs, she didn't have any-- until she watched some docs, and listened to a guest lecture. An hour listening to these two Black men speak on it, and voila! "I didn't understand how the inner city works, but now I do."
NOW she gets it. All there is to know, too. Privilege? Gone! Poof! She now understands every complex, every nuance, every story from every mouth on every block. She gets it! She couldn't relate before, but now she can!
My world glows in the cloak of darkness,
Limbs growing cold as they fall to the sullenness,
Eyes weeping without any tears
To add to the lake
Of despair looming here,
For to me I can’t even stand to be me,
(more) So no light can hold me
I am inert, so I seem
For I am forgotten
A lone little name,
That no one remembers,
Not even this day,
So here I stand
Not standing to be me,
As darkness surrounds me,
With no click of the key
He relaxes completely once they cross the town's perimeter, smiling in earnest as the wagon slows to a stop in front of his university. "This is simply excellent! You certainly have gone above and beyond with your service. Why, if not for you there's no doubt I'd have gotten(more) lost, robbed, or both! Most likely both." He hops onto the road with suitcase in tow, and offers a hand. "If you'd like to stay the night, I could show you to your quarters."
She contemplates his offer. "Will there be food?"
"Count me in!" She steps lightly, taking the hand only as an afterthought. Just as they begin to set out, a shout stalls them and a rather distinguished gentleman blusters excitedly towards the two.
"Hickory, by Jove, you've made it! And with the fossil too!"
"Geoff, old chum! This was far too important a find to leave it to gather more dust," he laughs, patting his suitcase fondly. "I'm just glad I got it here in time."
"How did you manage it?"
"Well," he motions towards his companion, "my escort-"
He's interrupted by raucous laughter. "You let yourself be defended by a woman? Or were you 'escorted' in another way!" She bristles, automatically reaching for her pistol. As she brushes her fingertips over the holster, her employer steps forward.
"You-!" He takes a breath, visibly composing himself. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you the man who approached the Broadside Pass one day and emerged but one hour later with not even the clothes on your back?" He sighs. "I simply cannot fathom the sheer stupidity of what you've just expelled. If you'll excuse me, I must show my guest the dining halls. Feel free to join us once you've removed your head from your ass."(less)
"I can't even do one thing right!" She was in hysterics, tears streaming down her face, her hair messy from hands running through it, her face red and her mouth twisted open. She was alone, so it was okay to scream, okay to let her tears show. If mother(more) had been home then she couldn't have. But now it was okay.
"I'm WORTHLESS!" With a strangled cry she shoved everything off the desk and onto the floor, glue sticking to her sweater sleeves. "WHY WON'T YOU WORK?" She aimed her anger at her failed project, at the glue and tweezers and the buttons that wouldn't stick. "WORK. START TO WORK OR I WILL DIGEST YOU!" She dropped to her knees and pounded the button and bottle of glue closest to her. "DO YOU SEE THAT?" she screamed at the other buttons and glue. "DO YOU SEE THAT? IF YOU DON'T START WORKING THAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU!" She dropped onto her side, pulling her legs into her chest, burying her face into her knees.
She knew she was being irrational. She knew the neighbors were probably calling the police to report loud, frenzied screaming from next door. But she didn't care. She had spent three hours on the project already; her head hurt an her eyes were strained and her arms were sore from trying to put the buttons onto the wood and make them stick.
"JUST WORK! IS THAT SO HARD? ARE YOU THAT STUPID?" She wasn't sure if she was talking to herself or the buttons and glue for the last part, but it didn't matter. She was breathing heavily, choking on her tears, wishing that she could hurt the buttons in some way.
It took two hours to calm down and stop yelling at the inanimate objects.(less)
I woke up to the smoke alarm.
I ran outside in my pajamas screaming my head off. The neighbors stared. Then my boyfriend, who had snuck into my apartment sometime in the wee hours of the morning, looked out my window laughing his head off.
Apparently, it was Apri(more)l first.
Nick had many other pranks planned for me throughout the day. Cream instead of skim milk instead my glass. The shower water freezing cold.
"Nick!" I screamed, stomping out into the kitchen. He was cracking up. "Turn the hot water on!"
"It's--too--funny," he choked.
I was not the type of girl to sit around and let her boyfriend beat me up with prank after prank. I would get back. So I rummaged through my closet and found all sorts of prank-worthy items. Like glitter.
It was a very simple matter to give Nick a forgiving hug and sprinkle pink glitter in his hair. Nick smiled, but that didn't stop him from putting a whoopee cushion on the driver's seat...or a plastic spider...or a plastic rubber rat.
After I picked him up from work, he seemed confused. "People keep giving me these really weird stares, like I have something in my hair."
"Nope," I deadpanned, as he shook his glitter-encrusted hair.
Later, after a romantic riverside dinner, we walked along through the darkness.
"I pranked you good, didn't I?" Nick crowed.
I smiled. "Of course, Nicky."
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What did you do?"
"I know that look..."
He ran a hand through his hair in thought and it came away pink. His mouth dropped open and I dropped to the ground, crying tears of laughter.
"My hair," he groaned.
"I--can't--even," I gasped. "Happy April Fools!"
He glared, but kissed me anyways.
I can't even find him. I have 3 hours left, and he's still hidden. I knew I shouldn't have accepted this contract.
But, hey, what stupidities can an individual do for money?
Plus it's not even a luxury to do this: if I could, I'd be watching(more) tv with a nice supper. If I didn't get evicted of my appartment for not paying the rent, evidently.
Here he is! Finally!
With only the fluorescent light of a drug store, I see him clearly. Black hoodie, camo pants, dreadlocks. Nobody's around, I need to be fast. I park my big pickup truck few meters in front of him and take my gun out. "I can't believe I'm doing this" I think as I hear him getting close. I open the window, put my ski mask, and aim.
Suddenly, faster than I expected, I see his face. He looks cruel. Full of tatoos and piercings, with dreadlocks and a big beard. He looks at me and I see his face change. I need to do it now. If I don't, well I die. My finger is shaking, I feel nervous. Then, I think out loud and say:
"I...I can't even..."
He looks at me, with only fear in his face, no more cruelty, and runs as fast as he can in panic.
I look at my watch. Time's over. And he's still alive. I hear a car coming fast. I hear tires squeaking. I turn my head to see and - BANG! -.