God forbid some kid like me puts you in a jar with a shotgun pattern of holes through the lid
I had to write this in case I forgot and forgetting these sort of things kill me.
I was making a deposit and as usual, the Seattle bankers are always surprised to see I grew up in Iowa. The one account is still alerting the big city tellers that I am from the great Midwest. The same questions always arise: "Do you miss it?" "What do you miss most?" "Are you ever going back?" And the answers are the same: "I miss it" "I miss it because I still know it as home" and "Yes." The last one seems to be conditional. Stars need aligning and someone has to usher me home but I have this fantasy of driving into the night until I'm on fumes or the tires pop and I'm stranded. Nothing matters in my Iowa fantasy because the only stress I have waits here in obscurity in the Big Fucking City.
She says, her parents lived there as farmers on the west side. Corn. And she remembers the fireflies. Catching them and smearing their bioluminescent bodies across boards.
"I'm surprised that's something you remember," a little shaken when someone remembers something about my home that I left two thousand miles away, "I miss them too."
They only live for a week or a day and much of their life is spent in development before their wings flutter, treading in the spring air. If they had the consciousness to realize how fleeting their lives were--just a fraction of the pity I had for them as an eight year old realizing the second they become adults their meter is nearly tapped out--some would probably wonder how much longer their species could go on like this. Some would probably pulsate until their bodies exploded or they fucked. All that matters is the eleventh-hour. Now.
But they are absolutely everywhere for the short amount of time they do come out to play. When the air is warm, the cloudless night brings out the stars, the Big City is a figure of speech, and the fireflies' bodies pulsate in a sort of thousand-part harmony.
I never get any work done.
I was making a deposit and as usual, the Seattle bankers are always surprised to see I grew up in Iowa. The one account is still alerting the big city tellers that I am from the great Midwest. The same questions always arise: "Do you miss it?" "What do you miss most?" "Are you ever going back?" And the answers are the same: "I miss it" "I miss it because I still know it as home" and "Yes." The last one seems to be conditional. Stars need aligning and someone has to usher me home but I have this fantasy of driving into the night until I'm on fumes or the tires pop and I'm stranded. Nothing matters in my Iowa fantasy because the only stress I have waits here in obscurity in the Big Fucking City.
She says, her parents lived there as farmers on the west side. Corn. And she remembers the fireflies. Catching them and smearing their bioluminescent bodies across boards.
"I'm surprised that's something you remember," a little shaken when someone remembers something about my home that I left two thousand miles away, "I miss them too."
They only live for a week or a day and much of their life is spent in development before their wings flutter, treading in the spring air. If they had the consciousness to realize how fleeting their lives were--just a fraction of the pity I had for them as an eight year old realizing the second they become adults their meter is nearly tapped out--some would probably wonder how much longer their species could go on like this. Some would probably pulsate until their bodies exploded or they fucked. All that matters is the eleventh-hour. Now.
But they are absolutely everywhere for the short amount of time they do come out to play. When the air is warm, the cloudless night brings out the stars, the Big City is a figure of speech, and the fireflies' bodies pulsate in a sort of thousand-part harmony.
I never get any work done.