Damnit, having a crush on someone is really freakin’ agonizing. I mean, it hurts in this good exciting way, but i thought i was taking a break from it. And suddenly i’m not. Bleh. Damn this blog and its apropos name.
by krisis
Personal
We are zeroing in on the infamous Turkey Day, and i am just barely sure of what i am not thankful for, let alone what i am. Erika and Jack are both trekking towards New England with people they really care about, and Lindsay has Kate here for the weekend to keep her company. And i am grudgingly going home, just as much to mooch groceries from my mother and do laundry for free as i am because it’s Thanksgiving. So, chalk one more up to crass commercialism and living through the eighties, because i forgot what the thanks was all about.
Most of you have a significant portion of the eighties as part of your palette of experiences … what’s your primary Thanksgiving memory? I turned nine in 1990, so most of those precious formative years were already moving farther and farther behind me. My memory of Thanksgiving is all about my Beta Machine… countless pre-Christmas holiday special recorded on those pint-sized tapes while we were in the dining room merrily chowing down our Italian feast. The meaning of Thanksgiving to me is tied up in that silly B.C. cartoon special that i’m sure i could never quite locate on purpose amongst my nearly hundreds of beta tapes in the 3rd floor closet at home. Thanksgiving is not consumer, and it is not corporate, and it should not be intricate; thanks giving is a simple thing. There shouldn’t have to be a festival, or a parade, or even a turkey. God knows i don’t do any of the above, that’s for sure.
Tonight it’s just me in me — stuffed up and alone in my flannel pajamas with only the echoes of laughter from elsewhere in the apartment to keep me company. I’m trying to pick out what in this mess that surrounds me i’m happy about. The thing is, it can happen any day of the year, and if you put it off until tomorrow you definitely don’t have enough time set aside between the Macy’s Parade, dinner, football games, and leftovers.
Think about it.
Erm, i have stuff to talk about, but i might as well upload my belated trio first; there’s no trace of the roomies, which means i have the phone to myself. Here goes…
Simple Refrain
(or, Upon Reading ‘Ella Mason and Her Eleven Cats’)
I have learned to keep my secrets like Ella and her eleven cats,
As if shuttered against hurricane season and a gossiping ear.
People make queries that disregard the gender of the spinster created.
Though only words, for no good reason my answer takes forever
Because nothing is secret that is already heard.
I wrote a letter to Miss Sylvia in the shape of a song
While i was locked out of my house. My front step was a podium,
My pen a Pandora box. How could she have known that
I had just spent another sleepless night, ready to explode
A razor’s edge away from my fears?
Because nothing is secret that is already heard.
When i set that one down on paper
I was pretending my thoughts were clouds that fade away.
But i have found that if i keep them bottled up they distill down
To a simple refrain.
I’ve never really owned 11 of anything — maybe more
Or less, though. I can surely count my secrets on less than
Ten fingers and just one toe, but i’d rather just send them
Back Home.
Atlas
(after Plath’s Edge)
The mind is sleeping. A mighty Giant stands in quiet surrender, The air of spartan arrangement Is crisp in the curves of her muscles, Her bare Shoulders are claiming: We will not topple over, i know. Two gaping spaces stretched strangley silent Each one in A state of crumble, emptied. She still holds Her torch to light the same sky Of steely jagged mountain majesties stiff and resisting the winds of change, cold of winter seeping in. Her set lips reveal nothing, Visage fixed on endless clouds beyond. She is weary of the weight. Her brow furrows, green.