kul shay. everything.
I am having a feeling that is unfamiliar. But when we meet feelings that are unfamiliar, what do we do? Surely, we don't kiss them on the cheeks (left-right-left-right) or sniff their back ends and all up the side like dogs or grab for the dichotomous key or even the field guide or chart out the intervals and re-build the chord, moving the root to the base. Maybe I need to get high or maybe I need to do something extreme like make myself really cold or really tired or really disoriented.In the book I am reading, the main character would say that he hopes he doesn't die like this, because, you know, we could.
When I was little, one of my favorite things was to spin in a swivel chair or just standing with my arms out-stretched and then lye on the ground with my eyes closed and forget where up and down were like when we laid on the bridge and pretended there was no fearsomely fatal emptiness between us and the big river that swallowed umbrellas and chancletas and umbrellas and chiquiticos. The caiman that ripped plastic bags and left them streaming, ribbons in the current and left nothing at all of missing children. The disappeared. The forest demands the first taste of every delicate thing and, like a camera with a broken shutter, like the perpetually wide-eyed sugar glider, silently alights to lick sap and syrup and secrets and whip scorpions from the bark of cecropia trees at night. There is work to be done here. There are hands trace and eggs to transport to somewhere where they're needed. Deep in the forest, at night, the lizards grind blue beetles to a paste and paint their tails with their tongues. What else is there to do in the forest at night?
It is really difficult to care right now.
I have not stopped moving for so long, caught up in adventuring rather than building barns and now here I am unwilling to pick myself up and go make my bed and perhaps I shall resign myself to no work this evening but then there are deadlines and there are expectations and there are assumptions. Who is this? And who was that girl who wished on Christmas lights in July and held her breath and left. The first icicle. The forest does not demand the first icicle. But the first snow has demands as well. It has everything in its edges and its corners that spread this all out to shellac, encrust the willows and windows and raspberry bushes and my eyes too, in ice. Besides the ice, it was the snow and the steam that night that took me out to sea.
Could some one make that for me? A dichotomous key for feelings, cause I'm not sure how if I would describe this wing venation or how many spurs are on the third metacarpal or if feelings even have metacarpals in the first place.
Maybe I will sit here for a long time and listen to Kid A a dozen times in a row and have an epiphany and understand what this is. Perhaps I need to eat a massive quantity of something that I rarely eat or something. You've done that before, right? I have to snap out of this sooner or later and have a plan, because tomorrow I have to finish something hard and send it to a professor because "no one is going to hold your hand in the field, Rachel."
Today, in the car, I said my name aloud a bunch of times and it sounded funny. You have to make your mouth do an awkward move, I think between "ch" and "el" which I never realized. I like symmetrical names so much better because if the word skipped for a moment or if, in fact we went backwards, if only for a moment, no one would notice. Talking or spelling backwards, Hannah and Anna wouldn't get confused. I use a brand of soap, from England I think, called "Pears" and after about a week and a half of use, it reads "ear" as if it were trying to tell me something every time and every time i still don't get it. Also in the car, I was dreading being 23 in an odd numbered year, 2011. I guess it is always that way. Turning 12 in the year 2000, now that was perfect somehow. I count odd years as off years, like off-beats, weak in the overall structure and rhythmic syntax. The best thing today was watching my probably Algerian barista articulately scooping the foamed milk from his little metal pitcher into my waiting cappuccino. "Shpik!" he said to his Arab friend behind the newspaper, what is going on, what is up with you?
kul shay, kul shay.
everything.
When I was little, one of my favorite things was to spin in a swivel chair or just standing with my arms out-stretched and then lye on the ground with my eyes closed and forget where up and down were like when we laid on the bridge and pretended there was no fearsomely fatal emptiness between us and the big river that swallowed umbrellas and chancletas and umbrellas and chiquiticos. The caiman that ripped plastic bags and left them streaming, ribbons in the current and left nothing at all of missing children. The disappeared. The forest demands the first taste of every delicate thing and, like a camera with a broken shutter, like the perpetually wide-eyed sugar glider, silently alights to lick sap and syrup and secrets and whip scorpions from the bark of cecropia trees at night. There is work to be done here. There are hands trace and eggs to transport to somewhere where they're needed. Deep in the forest, at night, the lizards grind blue beetles to a paste and paint their tails with their tongues. What else is there to do in the forest at night?
It is really difficult to care right now.
I have not stopped moving for so long, caught up in adventuring rather than building barns and now here I am unwilling to pick myself up and go make my bed and perhaps I shall resign myself to no work this evening but then there are deadlines and there are expectations and there are assumptions. Who is this? And who was that girl who wished on Christmas lights in July and held her breath and left. The first icicle. The forest does not demand the first icicle. But the first snow has demands as well. It has everything in its edges and its corners that spread this all out to shellac, encrust the willows and windows and raspberry bushes and my eyes too, in ice. Besides the ice, it was the snow and the steam that night that took me out to sea.
Could some one make that for me? A dichotomous key for feelings, cause I'm not sure how if I would describe this wing venation or how many spurs are on the third metacarpal or if feelings even have metacarpals in the first place.
Maybe I will sit here for a long time and listen to Kid A a dozen times in a row and have an epiphany and understand what this is. Perhaps I need to eat a massive quantity of something that I rarely eat or something. You've done that before, right? I have to snap out of this sooner or later and have a plan, because tomorrow I have to finish something hard and send it to a professor because "no one is going to hold your hand in the field, Rachel."
Today, in the car, I said my name aloud a bunch of times and it sounded funny. You have to make your mouth do an awkward move, I think between "ch" and "el" which I never realized. I like symmetrical names so much better because if the word skipped for a moment or if, in fact we went backwards, if only for a moment, no one would notice. Talking or spelling backwards, Hannah and Anna wouldn't get confused. I use a brand of soap, from England I think, called "Pears" and after about a week and a half of use, it reads "ear" as if it were trying to tell me something every time and every time i still don't get it. Also in the car, I was dreading being 23 in an odd numbered year, 2011. I guess it is always that way. Turning 12 in the year 2000, now that was perfect somehow. I count odd years as off years, like off-beats, weak in the overall structure and rhythmic syntax. The best thing today was watching my probably Algerian barista articulately scooping the foamed milk from his little metal pitcher into my waiting cappuccino. "Shpik!" he said to his Arab friend behind the newspaper, what is going on, what is up with you?
kul shay, kul shay.
everything.