sunday, may 10, 1998
sucking on seaweed. i'm next to an open window to smell the rain. it hurts me to think about how she hurts herself. i want to wrap her up in my comforter and rock her to sleep. instead she's probably walking home through the dark wet grass of the president's backyard, getting wrapped up in her own binding pressures. she is blind to her own sparkling accomplishments: the genius creations that get squeezed out of her fingers and mind, the ones that dissolve from her sight as soon as they're finished. all she can see is what she has not done yet. will she ever recognize her own strength and beauty (the radiance that captures everyone around her)?
pull the lid off the plastic box of treats. savor each white cube of evaporated milk, sugar, and nuts. numb delicious comfort. drink a glass of water or juice. go into the bathroom and press a finger to the back of the throat. reach for emptiness, a moment of non-self-indulgance. become light. eat and don't eat at the same time. back into the cycle. catharsis. it won't happen again.
the scene passes before my eyes as i walk back to my dorm in the opposite direction. having to tiptoe over the maze of wriggling earthworms on the wet walkway snaps me back to my own reality. once i'm back in my room i open the window all the way and pull out my nori. ricki lee jones' voice sings out of my stereo speakers ("the monk with the hard-on and lavender robes..."). i'm trying to sort through the pain that is freezing everything. the present has been the past lately, like it's already a distant memory as it happens. a grievance process, as if this life is about to slip from my fingers. too much fear. the surface level is drenched in perfection, which makes it even more confusing. where is it coming from?
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