and I was just thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
standing side by side on a place mat.
I wondered if they had become
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one
like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
each other at the same time---
me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading
Is there anyone leaning in a doorway somewhere near some blue hydrangeas reading this?
Please tell me there is.
Collins makes me want to be a happy poet---throw out that surrealist scrapbook of crap and write about nostalgia, write about that feeling when I was ten and nine and seven, about the blind woman’s teacup and forgetfulness, write about undressing Emily Dickinson; leave the world of ambiguity behind. Embrace clarity. He makes me want to claw my way back to reality and plaster it about my walls, enjoy every shade of life dear, he seems to say.
I think that I’d be too star struck to sit through one of his class lectures. I’d just stare in awe, trying to absorb it all. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.
Kafka. Kafka is all I can think about lately--- flippin’ marshmallows, my negativity senses are tingling.
I’m going to end up like him, aren’t I?
What a beautiful failure---wasting away, lost in existentialism [har har], trying his entire life to please his parents but failing to do so, and then finally dying alone and miserable from a painful disease. Well, at least it was poetic, tragic, gut-wrenching.
I don’t take my mother seriously. Now my father is a different issue entirely. I would never dare walk out on him. I suppose it’s because I respect him, and don’t care about her.
I hate maths. I always feel so dumb after that class.
I’m uncomfortable. I feel like I’ve been thrown back into the awful ol’ days of Strange kid with the head thing, from the pleasantness of Athia, The Freak. I’ve been demoted back to anonymity.
I don’t know why she did it.
Words drown out the sound of my mum’s screeching. Stories take me anywhere but here. That’s why I love them so much. That’s why I savor the sensation…I need it.
What a desperate little girl.
I was in McNamara’s class yesterday, making up a test.
It wasn’t a pleasant experience.
“Why do you skip school so much?” she was looking at me and then to my test, her left nostril flaring with congestion.
And I tried to explain to her. I tried to make her understand that I just couldn’t bring myself to go school. I can’t bring myself to face my failures. I can’t be around people for long periods of time without having some sort of break down. It’s too much.
I need time to charge.
I couldn’t explain how darkness seemed to seize me every so often and I how can’t force myself to participate with people anymore. All I want is to run into my closet and hide or sleep my life away.
It’s amazing how you can build a reputation as resident crazy in a matter of seconds.
“Oh, well, I’m glad you shared.” Smile. Nod. Turn away.
Why did that seem oddly reminiscent of how all the adults in my life act around me?