A good looking, funny Italian PhD physicist/astronomist who studies the universe circling around a black hole who I got to talk to about about Rome, yay! Good times. Although, the guy could not handle his bourbon. Pshhaa.
That sweet wisp of smoke at the top of a newly corked bottle of sparkling.
I am awake. A double shot of espresso will do that to a person. A macchiato in my case. The barista asked me if I wanted a double or a quad? I said the regular, not knowing what was regular for a macchiato since I had never had one. While pinching dimes and shuffling pennies, it occurs to me. “Four shots?… Oh no, that would probably kill me,” I uttered. And it’s true.
It’s been 43 hours and that’s not a world record by any means, but it is uncommon. I know it’s uncommon because my body is throbbing. I can see blue and red lines vibrate around me like in a 3-D movie except I’m not wearing any paper glasses. The room, my bed, it oscillates as if I was three levels down on an ocean liner. My body–the room without a view.
Lactic acid seeps through striated fibers. I feel the warm rush of earlier gym pursuits returning for a second chance to burn me. I feel every push of blood pump leave my heart and push through my veins to to my legs. Blood bursts into spiderwebs under my heels. Thread-thin wisps of blue electricity.
The world is so quiet and I am so awake with my body that I transform. Panting, laying, blood waving, unassuming. My whole mind knows not a single thought in these moments; it’s like suddenly speaking a foreign language. Like dream speech, the best you can do is translate it back into your native tongue, but words have shortcomings, limitations, definitions that your body doesn’t recognize.
It wants to stop and rest. I start to panic, I start to empathize with my imagined dog–its black hairs and cool nose. Pointy canine teeth. I spring into action at the slightest encouragement. Eager to play, ready for adventure, I move compulsively. Head whipping. When I stop, sit, heel, my four-legged body is still rushing, the inertia’s taken over and I’m spinning motionlessly. My neck loose, my spine gone and suddenly I feel like I’m about to explode.
Does every animal feel like it’s about to explode?
I push my hand underneath my shirt and let my palm settle on that hollow space at the bottom of my ribs. Self touch can be soothing. No doubt, soon I’ll be curled into the fetal position, that most innate of poses, of non-movements, clinging to myself like a feral child. Burrowed under blankets whose warmth I do not feel, where nothing can touch me–except for what’s already inside me that has yet to cease moving my joints as if I were a marionette, hanging limp and then jolting, hanging dead and then convulsing. I am alive, I want to believe with every involuntary glitch.
Is every puppet possessed?
Each soft thud in the house shakes my body as if those tenants in adjoining but separate homes, preparing their day, are within me and not within the same walls as me. Cars pass in second-short whirs, it sounds like holding a shell up to my ear, but the ocean is only my computer fan overheating in this silence. It’s not whiiiiiiring, so much as eeeeeeeing.
If my computer is alive do I own it?
As I write this, my eyes squint against the screen’s glare, against the sun rising through clouds attempting to break in through the window. The light at dawn, I’m unfamiliar with. My fingers scramble to find each key only to find ‘b’s swapped with ‘d’s and words dropping ‘i’s. Who knew nsomna could cause byslexa.
What is it that men want? What is it that I want? I’m almost afraid to admit it as if it’s not ambitious, rewarding enough. Quiet house on the water. Solitude. Friends. Happiness. Art. Mini projects and adventures.
Is it that men don’t care if they are alone in life? Or that they don’t ever think they will be? That they’ll be able to get a woman whenever they want? That they don’t care if they end up with “the one,” they’ll be pleased enouh to just end up with someone. I wonder if for men, “the one” isn’t just themselves.
It’s not really a gender thing. I could jump from man to man — in fact I might just end up doing just that — but that seems unrewarding. Superficial. Constant bachelor(ette) hood. But maybe it wouldn’t be.
For me it’s not so much who I’m with as it is that we’re on the same page, we grow and change together. Hmm… I guess that’s not entirely true. There are plenty of men in my past who don’t cut the mustard ( is that the right phrase?)
I always wanted to get the word “beloved” tattoeed on my wrist. Because all I wanted in life was to be loved. But maybe that’s not entirely accurate. Becuase who is doing the loving in fact matters very much.
A guy I know is going to tattoo his wife’s name over his heart, another guy is going to give his wife a necklace of his baby teeth. I’ll finally get that tattoo when I find that right person to be with, when I actually am someone’s beloved. The right someone.
Side note: when things were really terrible a few weeks ago, I kept telling myself things could be worse. Someone i love could be dead or dying, I could be burned or raped, I could live in a third world country etc. But right now, the very worst thing can think of is having a snake fall out of a tree onto me. I’m sitting in the park in the shade, and yup, that’s the worst thing that could really happen to me right now. Ughhh snakes, gross. I suppose this means I’m getting better.
Okay end rambling. I profusely apologize for the spelling errors, it’s the wine, and the tiny iPhone screen.