drowning in cynicism like falling into a dish of jello. everyone around me looks silly but i guess i don’t realize i look sillier with all these slimy crystals in my hair. (i mistook them for genuine gems inside my head)
i showed my teacher a writing piece i did and i don’t know it’s like showing people my writing makes me terrified of my own work because i’m scared of seeing what part of me i just revealed argh
You appeared in my dream last night. You had five orange stars in your hair and I was impressed until I leaned closer and realized they were merely fireflies. Glowing lice, that’s all, but a child who still called dandelions flowers and not weeds would’ve thought you beautiful right then.
Why, I asked, why are you here? I was talking to the fireflies but you thought I was talking to you, and you, so scared, scampered away. Were you scared because you didn’t know the answer?
Well, I suppose that was foolish, because you were in my dream, so it must’ve felt like you were summoned out of nowhere. Perhaps I should have been the one to do the the explaining. But I couldn’t have, because the scholars discarded Freud and my dreams mean nothing without him.
But you mean something too fine for elucidation. Tell me the last time you held insects in your palms and breathed thoughts into their wings. I don’t trust them to take them away, but I trust the strange in my dream.
Amy and Elaine
sometimes it becomes physically impossible for me to do work unless i am chewing strawberry gum strawberry gum is the brain of the world
I ran into God at ShopRite but he was clever enough to wear an ugly plum-colored hat so I would not be blinded by the glory of his hair. He also had that blinding glory face smeared with marshmallow-chalk and painted a mouth on top. It was ugly. God may be the most talented artist for creating the world, but unfortunately he is not a very good painter.
Another reason he disguised himself was so he could spy on me to see what kind of apples I bought without feeling self-conscious that a Divine was staring over my shoulder. I liked to spend my time carefully hefting the fruit in my hands, trying to find the gems that felt the prettiest in my hand, like smooth marbles blown up like balloons, and weighing as close to a helium balloon as an apple can, as a feeble attempt to slow the eating away at the paper gems in my wallet grocery shopping entailed. Apples are 5 dollars a pound at ShopRite. 5 dollars!
When I finally finished, he asked me: “Are those for you?” and with the easy banter I could always bring forward with strangers, I said no, they were for my daughter Lilya, who didn’t eat vegetables so I had to buy copious amount of fruit so her digestive tract did not become clogged with pastries.
“Oh,” he replied, “Well, they don’t look very tasty.” His painted mouth smeared a little as he spoke, but the little bubble of saliva that was to blame was disturbingly endearing.
And he was right: the lightest apples turned out to be the ugliest ones: barely qualified as red orbs, more like brown speckled with scarlet like a tawdry sunset created by a pseudo-god who had the creation skills akin to the make-up skills of the God before me. I told him it wouldn’t matter once I cut off the skin because the inside would be the same and God said “Oh.”
I didn’t mind having to teach God this little lesson because I knew he had a little grudge against apples that needed to be rid of. The last thing God needs is a stomachache like poor Lilya.
the only time i feel as if i can write perfectly is when fatigue won’t stop brushing its dark cheek against my neck, when my hands are full, with cheeses and greasy turkey legs and handmade soap that sends hives up my wrists, desperate red lines like artwork.
the only time i feel as if i can properly sleep is when sleep takes me and not when i try to drag it underneath the bed-covers, to take sleep for myself, because sleep is coy and pretentious and won’t settle for a small round-faced creature like me, unless it’s as a gag—look the round-faced girl won’t stop boiling water and sucking the life out of tea sachets here, here, she is mine now.
the only time i feel as if i can properly breathe is when i’m underwater and blowing bubbles like an overly conscious fish because here, here is tangible evidence of my breath, here is tangible evidence that i am capable of making something lovely—here someone capture the life i’m trying to create.
i’m trying to create and escape and there are brambles more beautiful than the world entwined around my ankles and i should feel honored, i should, i should.
“Given a day, what can hollow out a pink room?”
“And what is the pink room?”
“The stomach, or the heart.”
“Ha!” the cook’s son cried, “the heart is not pink!”
“It is,” said the prince, “For love makes the heart light, like a floating cloud, but once the love is taken away, the red heart pales in its anguish, turning pink.”