Snowfall

I hunch over my desk, slowly contemplating, chewing the inside of my upper lip. Suddenly, blood fills my mouth, a bitter, coppery taste. I suck the tip of my index finger, and it comes out a bright, fake red. I wipe it on my jeans and go back to the quiz, sucking on the torn skin in my mouth.

Outside, snow falls and melts on the nape of my neck, slithering down my back, making me shiver. I pull the collar of my hood up. My steps are slow and measured, concentrating on not falling, wishing I had worn boots. There's nobody else outside. The snow falls absolutely silently. It fills me and surrounds me, quietly making everything ok, and I can't quite describe how that feels.

I suck on my lip, taking a mouthful of blood, and turn to spit it in the snow. I expect it to splatter, an angry red mark on white, but the snow is too delicate, too fluffy, and caves quickly around it. There's just a hole there now, and it fills up quickly, making everything ok.

Adventures in Junk

We didn't know how to get where we were going. That may have been because the GPS didn't work, but let's chalk it up to an adventure. Adventurers. That's us.

Junk shop. Pull over.  The way the outside light filters through the old windows gives the whole store a sepia tone. Costume jewelry and splintered furniture. Ancient eggbeaters. Sealing wax. A box of bottle caps, jars of buttons. Boxy cameras that no longer work, field hockey sticks with peeling grips. All of it talks. All of it has a story.

There are records, stacks of  warped 45s without sleeves, hung on an upside-down stool leg. One by one, I go through them. On the other side of a bookshelf filled with broken super 8 projectors and tube radio parts, Sara rearranges books on shelves. She's cut her hair since I've last seen her, and it falls loosely forward as she pulls out an anthology of Oscar Wilde.

Elton John. Frank Sinatra. The Beach Boys. I set aside my favorites.

We tackle the biggest shelf together, full albums in colored sleeves. I move from left to right; her from right to left. I find it first. The complete soundtrack from Moonstruck, a stereotypical, ridiculous, romantic comedy, starring Cher and Nicolas Cage. It's fabulous. This movie is our movie. The record's beautiful, in nearly perfect condition, and I pull it off the shelf. We squeal. I hear another shopper joke to the owner, "I think you just made a sale."

We move through the rest of the store. Dollhouse furniture. An exit sign. A shaving kit. Hand bells. As we walk back to the front, we bump into the owner. His hair is wild and white, his face creased around his bright eyes and wide smile. He talks fast, excitedly, waving his hands.

"I've gotta know," he says, "What's the record? Does it tie you to an old flame, or what?"
I laugh, and Sara holds it up the record for him to see.
"We really like the movie," she explains.
"Ah," he nods, knowingly, "Great movie. Nicolas Cage's second best."
"Second best?"
"Ever seen Raising Arizona?"

I pay him for the records, he finds change in his wallet, handing us Moonstruck with a wink.

At home, we drink juice and put on the records and try on dresses. The moon is fittingly full."Your Song" has a skip, an infinite loop in the middle, but I don't bother to get up to change it. I could listen to Elton forever.

Again. Naturally.

I fell asleep happy. I felt right. Optimistic. I woke up happy. I savored the happiness for a moment. It had a strange taste, too sweet to be deserved, delicate and overwhelming in the same, but for a moment, I let it wash over me, indulging, completely, shamelessly.

Let's leave it there. I don't want it to come down. I don't want it to break again. Picture a mug on a table, carelessly swept aside. It falls slowly, endless infinities between it and the floor, its own inevitable end. Picture it, now just an inch above the floor. The surrounding people flinch, grit their teeth, suck in air, waiting for it. Don't be them. Don't picture it shattering. Just leave it there, frozen in time, suspended an inch away.



This isn't new. We're clumsy people. We drop things, we break things. Whether we mean to or not. Things end up broken. It's inevitable.


Picture the mug again. Let it fall now. It's ok. It'll be ok. Let it touch the floor, watch it shudder as the impact rips through it. Watch the cracks grow, watch it break into pieces. Watch it shatter. The pieces tear apart, the mess expands. And it's broken.

Dream Date

The internet is made for fanfiction and fantasies and such, right? Right. Exactly. So, my date.

I'd date a writer. Not an artist, no, I don't exist in pictures. I can't be captured in lines. I've been called pretty, ugly, a 3, a 5, a 7. But I'm not there. I exist in ideas, opinions, thoughts that unlace the seams of my chest, throat, and shoulders, that push to the surface and bead and grow until they drip, pulled down by their own weight, catching again at my fingertips, pausing just long enough to form, dripping into words. I exist in those words.

So I'd date a writer. He'd write by hand, of course. Hand, fingers, pressed against paper. He'd write in pen, in dark, spilling ink that captured his thoughts, like netted fish or webbed insects. He'd complain about the permanence, but never pause for an eraser. He'd scratch out mistakes with a single strikethrough and move on. And he'd write about me.

He wouldn't offer it to be read, but he'd let me if I asked. He would have terrible handwriting. I would exist in his notebooks, constantly under his arm, by his side, always in his reach. His notebooks, mind you, not me. I'd be just out of reach.

There would be sketches of me in words, outlining the way my hips sway when I walk heavier on my left foot, the way my bottom lip looks thicker when I smile, the way my opinions are bigger than myself, he'd see beyond my cynicism, and he would keep these things in his notebook.

To Gertrude

To Gertrude. Queen of Denmark.

You're a liar, Gertrude. And not a good one. See, here's my theory. You're guilty.

Act 3. Scene IV. A murder opens the scene in your dressing room, yet you do not so much as flinch. Are you so familiar with death that his macabre presence is a welcome one? But perhaps your calm control is derived from your expectation of his visit. You set up Polonius. You knew well what Hamlet was capable of, and you sent Polonius to take the brunt of it. Your control is wavering, Gertrude. And yet, you deny it all so defensively! You can see the King's ghost too, why wouldn't you? Everyone can: poor guards, Horatio, your son. In your own words, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

But Hamlet knows you're cracking, and he pushes you to break. You're a liar, Gertrude.

In the very next scene, you lament, "what have I seen to-night!" You're so quick to defend the murder as an act of madness, your lamentations must refer to the ghost, the one thing you've seen that you won't admit.

Gertrude, perhaps he wasn't enough as a partner or a lover. Perhaps he's not the father at all. Perhaps he just wasn't there for you. The gravedigger told us by accident. The day Hamlet was born, your King was at war. It was the Jester Yorick who raised your son, carried him on his back and kissed him.

Gertrude, I'm sorry. Hamlet defends a father who was never there for him, Fortinbras does the same, both fear becoming feminine. You're alone, Gertrude, just because you're a woman. Your only empathy shows itself when Ophelia dies, for both of you are victims of patriarchies, victims of masculine control.

You tried, that much I believe. Your hand never held the blade. You carried your family and your guilt together on your shoulders, struggling under it like Atlas under the world. Perhaps it wasn't enough. Perhaps you were doomed from the very beginning. Gertrude, I'm sorry.

Cat Fabric

I got snail mail today! There's nothing better than opening real mail. Nothing. Especially when it's from a cool place like illdownhill.

Beyond the sweet logo, let's look at that gorgeous swatch of cat fabric, which I have been absolutely itching to get for the past few days, because I'm going to do something really cool with it. Haven't decided what yet, so don't hold your breath, but enjoy these super girly ideas. 

 

I totally have a crush on the guy that sent me this.