Pm/Phto: Thread

when you look at me and expect me to be bound to my past a yesterday me, a yesterday mind
a thread is pulled from the muddy world, a root, a bog, to the tip of my toe up through the asphalt and between the guardrails of my past into my past-past self.

he is the one that has to own up to who i've been who has to provide you with continuity who wants to seem all together, and unquestioning in his identity. he is the one who gets the first few cracks at owning my face at running the levers and chords behind my lips, and nose, and irises.

the thread you pull goes from my big toe to my hip bone to my rib bone connected to my shoulder bone connected to my remote control bone. to the little levers and pulleys behind my face keeping my smile gentle, my eyes interested, my ears perked to the comfortable conversation that depends on a common contemplation on what i did and said the last time we talked, on that we are not strangers. on a certain dance we are dancing, a ritual meant to keep me bound to then and you bound to then and both of us circling now. now. now. now we are here looking at each other faces wondering what the hell do i have in common with this person? how the hell do i get this conversation back on the topic of me? where is the next reference, anecdote, TV synopsis going to come from? will we ever fuck? can i tell you about my mother, and how i am guilty? will you neglect me too? please?

we both need the thread, we both need the past, we both need the constant.
you dearly hope that i am included in the last three 'we'-s.

and maybe i am. and maybe i'm not. maybe i will snip the thread, cut away from my past. become a stupid, feckless, innocent member of now. a member of now. a member of the crowd of firey impossible people that always seem to be arriving, leaving, staying, all at once.

you ask yourself: will he cut my thread too? set me free?
i ask myself: will you cut my thread too? set me free?
instead one of us talks about family guy. we both find it funny.

Food

It all begins with food. Sometimes, when life throws me off, gets me down, or pulls another one of those phrases that stand in for 'shitty', the best thing for me to do is go grocery shopping. At about 10pm on a Sunday. It's really the best time, but don't tell anybody that, because my Hannaford will be crowded, and that will suck. Then it'll become an underground club scene; therapy-grocery-shoppers trying to avoid each other via more and more obtuse places and times.

Anyway. Tonight I looked at raspberries, and realized I never eat them, ever, if they are in my fridge... the only time I find fit to eat them is when somebody else buys them. Tomorrow I'm helping my boss with my intern's evaluation. He deserves a great review; he put up with my obtuse, pie-in-everybody's-sky direction. I wanted his creativity to flourish, and it did, but not in the way I intended. He ended up persevering through my craziness, all in all.

Tonight I'm looking at the coffee. Sumatra, French Roast, Sumatra, French Roast. House Blend was all out. House Blend is the flavor of coffee for the people who are ashamed to be considering flavors of coffee. I am one such person, but tonight I have no choice but to make a choice. Sumatra won. Shortest name.

Black cherry seltzer. One bottle. Sometimes I like to pretend that I'm some kind of recovering alcoholic, and that I drink seltzer to fit in at parties. Yesterday I was fitting into a party, drinking tonic on the rocks. Luckily it was a 60's theme party, which means the one dance I know can finally be exercised: the twist. Pulp Fiction style. I know, I'm a bit of a douche. Luckily, movies give you the power to step out of yourself for just a second. Just long enough to pretend you are comfortable dancing, and comfortable fitting in.

Tonight I'm checking out. Of the store. There's only one line open, but that's the risk you take when you arrive at the grocery store in the middle of the night. Fine by me. I remember walking in and seeing one of the attendants balancing a grocery basket on his hand. He stopped when I walked in, but I smiled at another clerk to try to reassure her. I'm not here to stop your fun, I just want the food. Now the basket-balancer is my checkout guy. And he's really my check out guy. Two times I catch him looking at me and darting away his eyes. It's kind of juvenile, and I have no luck with the whole not-talking-but-still-being-charming thing. He was a little young, and working, so I left well enough alone. May the universe know that I am appreciative, however.

As I drove away from the grocery store, I sang along with the stereo. The car is the only place I sing. I'm not the only one, I'm sure, so don't judge. Mike Doughty: "happiness is coming for you" me: "happiness is coming for you" I believed him. I believed me.

-A

Pm/Phto: Sunlight

Sunlight

This morning at breakfast the waitress
asked me if I was 'all set'.
I was watching the rain, drinking my coffee,
trying to see out past the parking lot.
I must've looked foreign somehow,
or at least desiring to be elsewhere.

I told her that I was OK, with a good smile on.
I can deflect inquiry, but that's about it.

Otherwise all I can do is collect sunlight,
drink water, and reach upward.
I'm like a plant in this way.

One, if you see me all green, it means I'm healthy.
Two, the wind blows and I lean with her like I know how to dance.
(note please that I do not know how to dance).
Three, when the soil is dry beneath me, so am I.

Should you see me at the side of the road,
know that one day I'll make it out of the grind;
my roots spread and take me somewhere better.
Just let me watch the rain.