emma b. says

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Life goes on and you hit all of the relevant plot points, you sleep, you wake, you fumble and mumble, sometimes you show up late to work (who am I kidding)show up always late, but sometimes a little extra late with sex all over my skin.

I might be shamefacedly late, but I glow and I gloat.

where do all the all old songs go to die, all those old anthems just as casually cast aside, do they go off to haunt the dust fairies of newly remembered and far off memories. Our unbidden, unwanted skeletons of girl's past, girls who were sillier and girls who once swore like sailors and girls who get enfolded into the tide, with a sideways smile and a velvet mile of regret, farewell my crimson tongue, till the morrow ma chere, so it goes, so I roll.

and all of the old songs lazily orbit the moon, and there are rings and things, lovely rings of dust and ambrosia and stones unformed, and I am once again pulling on my imaginary cigarette, imagining myself as a latter day Murrow -- how to contend with my undeniable feminism - by that I mean I can't escape the lunar pull, and I can't escape the blood in my underthings. That is until my body throws itself into categorical revolt and I can't tell my tides from my risings and all has gone very calm and detached, so if this is this and that is that then this is what and so it goes and so on... except for the part that screams well no - not really.

yeah, so well I am all tied up and fricassied and deliberately vague and all that. Also getting willfully and deliberately drunk. Hi! Internets! See a pattern! Have half a mind to delete this drivel.

But then there are the unexpected joys, there is that patch of redwoods in Larkspur, there is that unexpected phone call. There is being unexpectedly loved. There is that sweet voice in an unexpected message. And there is you, and by you I mean me, me getting older, my unfurling strung up a flag pole, me and my gnashed for hard earned independence, me humming along to everyone else's soundtrack, there on the sidewalk feeling unratified.

And then there is the other me, the me with headphones on, who should be colliding with her pillow, the one that wants to go and go, the one who is smashing through languages and time zones, the one whose body is timelessly twenty-five, the one who is happily oblivious to the lateness of the hour, that girl there, loose in her joints and free in her hips, just like I was before, when I used to dance in the mirror.

And now, well now - I just sit in front of the screen and marvel and the time passed, and I don't dance so much anymore.

Maybe tomorrow.


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