movement
I had to return library books so I finally caught the train back 'home'. That is, where I pay rent. (Never mind that I am never there)
There were these perfect morning puppies behind jewel-like glass. The lady let us play with them; they are a special breed of puppy called a champagne kiss. Mum is buying one to be a girlfriend for Mister Oscar.
I left a note for Kelly. I would have said:
"Hello girl! Today I played with champagne kiss puppies and on Thursday I am catching a rainbow aeroplane & I won't have your gorgeous voice fill up my world for a month or so but I will be back bearing gifts XXXX."
But it actually said (in the plainest possible print, no curlicues and special quill pens today):
Hi. I will be back tomorrow.
?
The question mark? Oh, it stood for:
"Kelly why did you move your bed into my room? Kelly why did you turn your bedroom into a studio? Kelly where am I supposed to live? Why have you effectively reinforced the "illusory" feeling I get wherever I may go? The one where Kristy-Lee doesn't belong? When did you stop caring about our graphic novellas, our artists and carnivals, our beautiful bougainvillea mornings? When did you stop bringing me frangipanis and heart-shaped cookies and bunches of grapes, worrying about whether I was eating or how happy my day was?
Why did you move your things into my room? Why did you shove all my things in the closet?"
So I walked to the train station; my bag of books felt heavier suddenly. & my bag of bones. A boy in a car looked over at me. He grinned, then waved. Not a "hey baby". Not a French "haw haw, oui oui!" but a simple hello. I burst into tears. But not for the first time. Earlier in the morning I shook myself out of reading Dragons in Manhattan to realise I was crying. I couldn't conceive of why. I am not that sentimental about trannies or strange families or pink gingerbread motels. I have been telling the universe lately that I am open to new people, to cure this newly found loneliness (or rather, newly discovered) if only for five seconds. I have had friendly strangers trying to make friends with me all day, but I am bashful. Me. It never used to be this way. A boy on the train desperately wanted to talk to me. I ignored him, preferring to open up my Francesca Lia book. There was blood on the pages. I'm not saying someone got a nosebleed and it dripped on a page accidentally. I'm saying some girl has been cutting herself on to the pages, all throughout the book. Continuously. Bleeding on to Francesca's pages. Is that wrong?
I suppose, Francesca bleeds on to pages too, in a way. Bleeding on paper.
Anyway, Moby was on Rove tonight. Such a geek, such a clever little thing. So white and small and foetal! And the sky was pink and purple like a bubblegum flavoured ice cream, like a little girl's dream polka-dot dress. But the patterns were ruined as though some giant licked the sky.
Up the beanstalk..
Down the rabbit hole..
{{This is where I'm going. I am so glad to be gone}}.