365: 67 – 08.03.09
Reading Vellum, a book mixed in dark Sumerian myths that mentions a childhood spent in Slab City, I feel the world is held together with cellophane, that everything touches a clear film of shared experience; a theory continually upheld by strange synchronicities and fantastical, personal proofs, as I perpetually discover that the people out there I’ve never met, but read about, turn out to have been next to me all along, living only ever one singular person away.
365: 62 – 03.03.09
His voice is almost convincing, “We could always try tantric sex.” Her mind races for a few seconds, failing to place the non sequitor with any current topics of conversation, before discarding the notion altogether. This is very obviously an entirely new discussion. She thinks about the last time she felt beautiful. Once, before, even in this bed. “Where was that question six months ago?” she asks, instantly wary, “I mean it. Where?” He stumbles, reeling, “I… I don’t know.”
In one white wooden drawer are her stockings. Fishnets full of torn holes, seamless black nylons with a back seam of flashing white rhinestones, purple velvet thigh highs that stay up without a garter belt, a pair of red and black vertical stripes with the toes danced out. Electric memories of sweat, ghosts as distant as England, as far as away as reaching out three feet and yanking on a bronze pull shaped like a vacant new moon.
She feels as acutely cold as surgery, like she’s splitting her arms open and only the bright dust of stars is spilling out. “I don’t mean to be insulting, repeating this,” she says, with a feeling akin to tearing off limbs, “but that was precisely the problem in the first place. I would tell you I need mental input more than physical attention.” She taps his forehead, trying not to walk away behind her eyes, wincing that he never once breathed poetry, “And you’d only try to answer with sex.”
Dreampepper this time but before: March 3rd in 2007.
365 2009: 28.01.09
My lovely friend Mark, who I hold dear like hardly anyone else, has been standing me up this month. Yes. Month. First we ran into each other on the street and decided that Sunday! We will get together Sunday. He will make me dinner and play me music he wrote and it will be a lovely time. Then Sunday came and when I called, he had to cancel. Cousins unexpectedly in from out of town, he said. Ah! I said, that is unfortunate and completely understandable. Wednesday, he said? And I said yes. Then on Wednesday, I did not hear from him and when I called, it went directly to voice mail. Wednesday passed without him. Thursday night I got a call, "Migraine," he said. Ah! I said, again, that is unfortunate and completely understandable. I hope you are doing better. I am, he said, let me make it up to you on Sunday. Alright, I said. Sunday then. When Sunday rolled around, he called again. Jhayne, he said, you are going to hate me. What has happened now? I asked. Band practice. An accidental double-booking. Ah! I said, again, that is unfortunate and completely understandable. Wednesday? Wednesday. Now it is Wednesday and I still have not heard from him, though I have left two messages on his phone. The latest one was very amused, "Now you owe me dinner without question. I am going to put this on my calendar, The Month I Did Not See Mark. Then I will write a short story called The Month I Did Not See Mark and publish it. I think it will sell. It’s a good title."
flyinghousewife: an etsy shop that sells handmade, handwritten letters in different flavour-genres.
I slept on the couch last night, rumpled as a blanket. Lying in the dark living room, trying to absorb the sounds of the rain, the rabbits, and the cats, despairing at sleep, my memory flashed of when I would wear blood red and midnight black stockings, wear them down the street just to the corner store, as if I might as well. Late at night, how do these things happen? I am exhausted, tired of being intimidating. I know what is coming. This is as predictable as pain. He stands in my way, “I won’t let you.” as if his resistance will prove something, as if this is somehow the ideal. I think about how I’ve been trying to make the apartment into somewhere to come back to, a place of colour and grace, looking at him standing in my bedroom doorway, and refuse to simply push past his hands. This is meant to be my home, and so I will make it such, and in this place, I will sleep where I please.
365 days one hundred & seventy: between the lines
David is going brown in the sun, his pale becoming tan, becoming sepia, a colour stolen from the ink of squid, then fractured, chemically converting silver into sulphide, toning into something more resistant to breakdown over time. Our bodies contrast, as if we’re different genres of the same animal. I wonder what he’ll look like the other end of this coming up Folk Fest weekend, where people take off their shirts and get happily dusty walking the Jericho paths. I wonder, too, how he’ll get on with Mike, how interesting and odd all the interactions will be. There is an anticipation building inside me, bubbling like water over stone.