the trick is to convince yourself that you saw what you wanted to see

the correct answer is (C)

I’m waiting in harmony. Skinning my relationships down to ‘crave the flesh, crave the affection’, hasn’t been working. I’m still caught in the web of words and desires without boundary. Fingernails against the glass. He sat there, I sat here. It’s something to do, you know?

He’d point me in the right direction but give me an extra turn so he could laugh later over his hourly shot at the bar. Last time we went in together, he held my hand, put his lips by my ear and whispered delicacies as he stole my key passwords. That he talked dirty later wasn’t enough of an apology. This time my fingers slip lower than he intended. I touch fine wires of hair. This time it’s a little war.

I’m considering making PostSecret cards and plastering part of my wall with them. These white walls are nice for photography, but I’m feeling recently that I can’t get myself together enough for what I want. I used to make boxes, a few years ago. Black things, enameled like a carapace, that opened to red and the velvet taste of kisses. They were full of twisted silver, little jet beads and embroidered poetry. I made my last one for my ex, right before things went bad. It’s summertime, I’m thinking of starting up again, but I’ve given away my materials. If anyone has a cigar box, one of the old wood ones from Cuba, if you would be kind enough to drop it my way, that would be a kindness. I don’t know where to get them anymore.

My neighbor called. I think she heard the screaming. I told her it was a lunatic outside yelling at a whore. It happens here. She was mollified and hung up the phone. This is my world, I thought. Tired from tying my lover down, he struggled more than thought he would, I only wanted to lie down and rest, but I couldn’t. He was still awake yet, and that would be rude.

My toe-nails are still chipping red. I’m in lime green and black, dressed right for an old apple convention. My hair is a blood rainbow with black purple at the bottom cascading down from brightest gold. I can’t explain how appropriately dressed I feel for something that’s not happening. Every step I’ve taken today has been back to my computer, not toward anything.

It edges against sacrilege as heavily as the skirts piled against her waist, she’s thinking. Arthur’s head is between her thighs, almost invisible in the gentle moonlight, and in spite of it, her mind is elsewhere. When her eyes roll back, it’s not he husband she sees, nor even her lover anymore. The attractive armor of the knights had grown dull, scratched by the daily wear of routine. After the most honourable light in the court became hers, it all lost lustre. There was no challenge anymore. She laughs to herself, “Who knew being Queen could be outre?”. So now she dreams of a boy she met in the forest. His vows are to be silent, to worship until the priest declares him one of the brotherhood. Instead, she goes to him and he screams for his thorned father to forgive him and he grinds her hips into the ground.

I’m special. I fixed the puter ALL BY MYSELF!

I’m celebrating by playing a vampire game where you wander around a chessboard city trying to find humans to eat. It’s sort of a depressing sort of celebration. The house is too hot, there’s no-one-line to chat with, my e-mail has been completely replied to – even the ones I’ve been slightly avoiding…
Those letters that clutter your in-box from people that for some reason or another, you’re not entirely certain you wish to remain in contact with. The guy at the party you exchanged e-mail addresses with a year ago whom you haven’t seen since who keeps pressuring you to go for coffee, the girl who’s a friend of a friend you were introduced to on-line who you’ve come to realize is so irritating in thier worldview that even chatting with them is like scraping the enamel off your teeth with a nail file, etcetera, ad nauseum. There’s harmless ones too, that continually are put off – simple letters between friends/aquaintences that you just can’t seem to get your mind together enough to reply to today, and today, and today, and today.

I have continual ideas that are smothered. Lack of funding, lack of friends. There’s a new gelato place on Main street, kittycorner to Heritage Hall. It has a sign shaped like an ice-cream cone with incomprehensibly connected messages floating on rings around the innerlit wafer. I tried to make meaning out of them and failed. Cross cultural referencing lacking a cohesive whole.

Sometimes I remember things and I suddenly see this little city around me in a new way. Everything shifts with the light. Small town traffic in a small town city. Endless nattering conversations about the same things. You know him who knows her that dated him, who ran off and slept with that guy who’s a friend of hers and the guy you know at the coffeeshop. Everyone here is so interconnected it’s impossible to meet somebody new.

I miss living in a real city.

Melting in this basement office space, I am dreaming of lightning. Of water, drenching and wet to fall torrential from the heavens. Blue turning to black to crash and thunder down.