emma b. says

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

It's still raining and I'm not dancing, days and and a month of rain. Between the incessant patter of rain on the windshield and my deep desire to smoke anything flammable you can imagine I am a joyful bowl of cherries. Well the engineer gets a pass, because that is what the first throes of love do to you, render you helplessly cheerful when under other circumstances you'd be happily gnawing on the arm bone of the first offender who dared look askance. Mmmm, armbone.... hungry.

Hungry and also angry, the beacons of my hormones have set their flares, and all of this swimmily distilled in a languid haze of lassitude, angry enough to raise a wrist and watch it dangle, hungry enough to let thoughts idly stray to pantry, from my artfully prone position on the sofa, though no one is here tonight, I am clearly in rehearsal. I am hoping that I make a lovely dork. The anger, it's just a burble in my volcano, no real rhyme nor reason, just a tiny smokeless spate of rage, just because, just because I am angry and I miss the sun, and April is going to short change me, when I should be working on my serve in my best pink skirt.

I should just leave the house now, in my sweats and red velvet slippers and go jump in puddles and get all wet, the rain is likely to carry us all off tomorrow anyhow. I am waiting for the arc to make an appearance on Haight street to reject all of the hippies and the sons and daughters of the hippies and the tourists smoking their nostalgia, we'll all wave from our perches in front of ben and jerry's and the gap, and then so we'll all drown.

I should just leave the house now, in my red velvet slippers, with my wallet and my car keys, because as delightful is the ride up, the ride down is going to rip your heart out again and again. And I should know better, I should know better than this, because the absolute most terrifying thing, isn't that death defying plunge you take with a losing hand, it's coasting the plateau, it's the tucking in for the long haul and falling into bed without falling into each other and forgetting to say goodmorning, because I don't want to run out of things to say and I don't want to rehash cliche and I don't want to stop dying a thousand little deaths pinned under his arms and should that happen do I have the fortitude to stick, or the strength to run.

I have tread through an unknown future, and am grossly hedging bets, and these are traits I despise in myself, because if I took a deep breath and held loosely to saturday night then it would look something like this.

The heat lamps are far away but you are near. Six or seven floors up on the roof and Mission spools beneath us. We giggle. You tuck your watch cap into the gap between my jeans and my jacket because I am trying not to shiver, things have been said, things that are airily weighty, we both know the space on the roof and the space between my sheets will only be punctuated mediocre food and overpriced drinks and a cab ride, and in the morning you will surprise me and all the cauterized parts of my heart will burst open and start to bleed again, all the parts that I was pretty sure couldn't leech a drop of my precious ruby blood. And there it is again, there is my lovely heart, magically restored and leaking love, sweet love, all over the fucking place. So there it is, just like I said it would be, and please, though you won't have seen this, please don't break it -- not quite yet.


  • The well wasn't quite dry, was it?

    Great piece of writing!

    Glad to know that the seasons are real. Ton Petit Frere

    By Anonymous Anonymous, at 2:23 PM PDT  

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