The kitchen is clean. I am considering celebrating. Those of you who have visited recently know the implications of that statement. For those of you who haven’t been so unlucky, it seemed for awhile that my roommate was observing a strict regimen of experimentation, hypothetically breeding new species of super fruitfly. It was all for science. It had to be. That was too many of the little annoying gnats to be otherwise. Now that the kitchen has been cleaned, I will take on the bathroom in return. A serious exercise in scrubbing shall occur, oh yes. Time for the cool clean taste of bleach. I would still like to know where to get a carnivorous plant to placidly hunt down the remaining kamikaze insects, but for now, I am no longer living on the edge of a war zone of dishes. Insert the ticker tape parade here.
As part of making the self a home, I want to map out my new body rules, examine minutely the fresh schematic I returned with, but I think they’re still in flux, still settling and finding their edges. I don’t like people casually touching me now. Arms around my shoulder, legs against mine when we’re sitting four to a couch, I’ve been avoiding it. Instead I sit apart. Family is exempt, as they usually are. Not the blood relatives, but the clan I’ve created with empathy adoption and matching personal mythology. It’s odd and unexpected, a new layer of adaptation to paste into the mental environment. I require space now, room for my skin to breathe.
And with you I am not be. The waves push forward to the base of my throne and mock me. Immolation is the key here. Flames reaching past the wind to pull my hair in the middle of the night in a foreign city. Listen, there’s a sound here. It’s a heartbeat keeping time with surprise. It’s all very self involved though I think you’re seeping into me, humility a flag I bear that no one sees because the cup is not full but half empty. It’s like I can hear you laughing. The whole we are stardust thing and the sand is burying my feet in the salt that the earth gives us to dream about. Horizons go in both directions. Over there is another world. Youth bears crosses the way wiser heads never will. We speak of light and ruination and think we mean it. Mind the ship, steer the storm.
Break for chorus.
Here’s the King Kong Trailer for those who asked. He fights dinosaurs. Over the Girl. Yes. It’s got some wicked style, nothing artistic, but as a cliche homage it seems like it’s going to push the envelope. Game On.
Take the Bridge, it’s faster.
It’s tiring, hearing your name used in conversation casually. My reaction wants to sit and pour a cup of tea, forget that what I mean to you is not what you mean to me. I’m a girl, a scary thing, a creature that should have a bit more whimsy. Taking the chance was worth it, a koan I know by heart, a catchy pop hook that I hum incessantly. Music on means it’s time to hike up my skirt for freedom, give the soldiers something to think about on the front line as I bide again. The quickest I’ve ever kissed somebody, I swear upon that question about colour, but remember the gold is a state secret. There’s no other way to pay the tariff fee.