“Our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask him nothing about it” said Elizabeth Bennet to Caroline Bingley.
There is truth to this.
Don’t ask them questions
— any kind of questions, especially ones that make you feel most naked.
Especially if them is a him.
Take that affection and put it in plants.
At least, they will grow –
even fucking succulents – who are as dramatic
as dramatic can be
will return more affection.
then take that affection and put it into making a nice reading corner for yourself. Preferably where there is light and water to drink. Sit here every morning and think about life on this purple sofa next to the window and think, and ask — and really ask yourself – is there anywhere else you would rather be?
I don’t know if the faint light behind curtains is going to make me smile everyday, and maybe it shouldn’t.
Even as I am looking at them morosely and wondering why all mornings cannot be the same, the day begins to yawn quickly into nights and I have nothing accomplished to show you.
The lightness in my smiles weighs the thoughts within me in measured interruptions.
In short, Lorelai Gilmore calls the voices in her head Clem & Clem.
If I could be that funny to the voices in my head, they would shrink and become dust.
But they have serious names, one is yousuck and the other is seriously.
They are both talking to me now.
Tomorrow I will come up with better names, I promise.
Like the notes you make in an auto which go into some drawer later, and you don’t see them ever again
Like the debit card that goes into your front pocket instead of your wallet, like it should, after long sessions of beer
Like that last cigarette you were’t going to smoke
Like the mug of beer you don’t know why you drink
Like the earphones you can’t find when you want to pack in a hurry
Like reading blogs that set your heart on green-red and yellow fire
Like piles of books unread
Like the change that clinkers in your purse
Like the lie you forgot
Like the workplace that is yours
Like the workplace that is more yours after everybody leaves
Like the silence that falls on the room after you lock
Like the lights that hesitate to pull out fully
Like the ring of the bell that is freakishly long on Tuesdays.
Anger is a purple sofa in a white room
A dirty water bottle that you don’t want to drink from
A friend you don’t want to talk to
A message you are finding hard to send
A truth you are not seeing
A pain you will not feel now
A tablet you like eating
I cannot think straight. I can only think in circles and patterns. It begins with an image, a color, a word, a smell and the next thing I know I am weaving or reweaving an old memory, sometimes faking a memory or foretelling it, to heighten the experience of self pity.
There aren’t too many ways to describe a mug of coffee sitting on your table.
It is coffee. It is in a mug. It is on the table. It is either hot or cold. You are either preparing to write or postponing it.
Your phone blinks.
Draw the curtains down, close the door, sit on your bed. The coffee mug is still the same. Repeated images of an overused coffee mug.
The cursor blinks.
You feel useless so you bang your net book shut and watch Gilmore Girls. You try to pick an episode that has Rory either writing or reading. Hopeless attempt. You are angry with her, She studies, she reads, she eats, she drinks coffee but she doesn’t write like write write. You really close your net book now and decide tomorrow will be a better day.
You are riding. And on the road are words. ‘You’ circled multiple times. You are using way too many ‘yous’ in your posts, an ‘i’ looks hurt and is going to disappear. A pothole is overlooked. The vehicle rams itself against it and you wake up feeling demotivated and bruised.
Nothing like a can of red bull sitting quietly on your table to make you wonder why you take life and phone calls seriously.
I feel combed.
Too many truths I don’t want to see
Too many lies I am trying not to speak
Too many desires I am scared to show
Too many voices I am scared to listen to
Too many glasses I want filled
Too many memories I cannot shake off.
Beyond a point, which is a post twelve something on the clock, the energy to create fake ids on social media dies. Give it more time and the reason why you need these fake ids also begin to die.
I have never seen a white owl. But I am told they are beautiful, like snowmen.
Neruda said there’s nothing sadder in the world than a train standing in the rain.
The stomach grumbles, a dog barks, the remote doesn’t comply
My grandfather’s hat sits alone in a cupboard that is opened everyday
He wore it with a safari suit
He didn’t understand why the is pronounced ‘the’ and not thee
Some days my uterus likes to pretend that it is falling down, into gravity.
I don’t want to get married
I wish I were drunk now so this would make sense
But I am not.
I like September.
Is that water?