(no subject)
A day of words
Words words, they come to me in waves. Waves come to me in dreams, tidal and high, and I never die. Dreams only come certain nights and how many days must we remember this? Remember that for some, words only come when they are consciously brought forth, but there are those of us who breathe them like oxygen, like mountain air. The smell of tortillas frying in a pan, tomato sauce and aguacate, low rhythmic tones of cumbia and Tiziano Ferro fluttering out of speakers, Efrain taking our hands one at a time for an impromptu cumbia dance session in the living room. A weekend of pulling knots out mane, a weekend of frustrated tears over the one topic that has plagued me since childhood. It seems so easy for everyone else: they want, they get. The snow is falling like little bits of hope and the wind is whisking it all away. I’m not ready for winter. I shiver, slink back and cup a mug tightly between my hands each night, seldom seen without warm drink. This week begins change again, job number two to begin on Thursday, dancing on Thursday, a month begins anew on Thursday. We’re on deadline and I’ve got bylines. Nanowrimo is almost over; if I type all night tonight like I did the other days this week, stealing moments at work to scribble lines, paragraphs, even just a sentence in my notebook, I’m keeping it moving forward. I don’t mind much if I don’t finish “on time.” Being locked out of my MySpace account; too many failed attempts -who on earth was trying to log into my account? And why? My personality summed up in one line, “Cool, you’re a pixie.” Penpals resurfacing, a strange confession, a temporary roommate and a random email from Argentina. Missing people. My thoughts come as phrases, my keyboard needing more pressure, my hands just wanting to cradle a flute that hasn’t arrived yet want to take a painting class I haven’t enrolled in yet. Reading words scribbled in my notebook; “ayudame luna, te ruego” the same letter written 8 different ways and all 8 still sit on my desk unsent. A song that brings back the scent of an island boy’s cologne so sharply he might as well be standing in my kitchen… a year ago, an island ago. The mountains wondering why it’s been so long since I’ve visited. Me, wondering the same thing. Notes leaving my throat like siren-song, music filling my ears and making me want to dance. “New” old books in my hands, turning the pages and wondering who might have read them before me. Wanting to read the lives of others. Be wild of tongue, you sassy thing you.