My mother and her friends, when they were children, used to pin fireflies to thier sweaters to be seen at night while playing tag. They would blink in midwest black until the light of the fireflies had faded. They wanted to be seen- to play in the facinating light of these little bugs (which would at times smear across their chests as they ran), not giving much thought to the toll on the bugs themselves.
I have been thinking of this memory that is not mine after bouts with selfish and suckerpunch hearts. Hearts who don't get what they want from me or can't catch me in the glass jar they would like to to keep by their beds at night and so become cruel. Laced in the smoke of mutual agreement, people 's disappointment can reach for the sharpest knives.
And so tonight, I am thinking of every hilarious and beautiful heart in my life (regardless of distance or lackthereof) that reminds me that an open heart is always worth it, even if you *do* feel the suckerpunches more when they happen.
I am thinking of: The hooligans with arms linked, heads tilted together watching what is left of the moon. The beautiful minds. The unfolded tents of our hearts passed out on the lawn holding bottles of sparkling fruit juice. The slant-grinned pirates who steal me instead of taking me home, and the laughter I choke on instead of resisting. The itchy feet that recognize there is moonlight to be seen and dance moves to be practiced within it.
Dear You: Through dreams, I hear the codes your hearts beat to me. And sometimes? They wake me up. [This morning: roughly 6:43 am.]
I am shoving my hands in my pockets to make it easier for you to hug me. I am wrapping my arms around you to show you how Eric Markiewitz taught me to hug. I am feeling your hand around mine as I draw these blueprints, and I am touching your face as you sew your blueprints with mine: A map for us to follow, or to cover us while we sleep.
At long last, I understand the phrase 'thick as thieves', and there is nothing in the world I am more sure of.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
At the library, hiding back among empty weekend offices and a locked door. The library is open, but from here, one would never know it. It is as quiet when it is open as when it is closed: Perfectly still but for the scratching of pencils and the falling of dust.
I have been thinking of you and, still, Galeano's words.
Alexis, Napal and I went to see Eduardo Galeano speak the other evening, and I've been thinking about it ever since.
Thursday night, there was a wind storm. While walking down 15th, walking past two EMS trucks and person collapsed on the ground at 10 pm, there was the taste of storm in the air and gusts of spearmint wind that sent sand and pavement into my mouth and eyes. It was incredible.
Perhaps I am homesick. Back home, there is a particular way that storms can begin with the smell of trouble mixed with tension: a red bra'ed woman two split seconds away from smashing a wine glass in a living room that is not yours, or hers. Sometimes the rain comes; sometimes it doesn't. In this type of storm, it doesn't, and leaves you nervous- wondering if it might.
In process of reading: The Balcony/ J. Genet
Beginning to read: Discipline & Punish/M. Foucault