dysania
“All beauty contains darkness.”
I got terrifically sick last night. I made myself sick. Quinoa and cucumber greeted me from the waste bin. The same that was stuck in my teeth when I chatted to the Spanish boy in the coffee shop.
There are some things you simply cannot get away from.
I’m bored. I am looking out of the shell I carved and examining all the mush around the edges. The stuff that globs and dries in the corners. Fairy dust, Deb would say of the rheum. She wiped the dust from my eyes when I was a kid. Now, I have to do it.
Does everyone rename the eye boogers? Does everyone flick it away upon waking?
No. I see it on some folk who are too tired or lazy to care. I always want to stick out my paw and get it when I see the muck dried on the faces of children. Who is taking care of you? I want to ask. I don’t. Because it’s rude, and what could they say?
I met Josie and Adrianna and CJ last night. We did a shot of mescal and I had a margarita. My drink was neon and served in a tall glass. I wore spangly earrings and my leather satchel with ripped denim and felt so posh sitting up on my round stool with a tall drink. Josie regaled her wedding tales (she met a wonderful boy) and I told her about the bread I purchased at the Farmers Market. Not exactly even in terms of excitement, bread and boys, though it was all I had.
Water—there is simply not enough moisture in this town and I forgot to sip aqua between slurps of the margarita. As the curtains dropped outdoors, my inner veil crept higher and higher until I couldn’t see anything but the eye wax! It’s too dark—I want to say, and who would believe me? The lights are fluorescent in the Flagstaff bar. My drink is neon. That much I see swirling in the porcelain throne.
Someone’s hands are in my hair—Josie?—and I want to cuddle. When was the last time someone touched me? I’ve been sleeping alone since my boating days and that was years in the future. Or past. I can’t tell with the circles; it’s not one clean line. Lines are easy because they divide.
The seats are fuzzy and I realize I’m in a car! I don’t have to walk, thank goddess, I can’t find my feet. The wheels are perfect. What invention, more circles. I want someone to hold my hand, so I know where I am, what pieces of me still belong and what pieces are left outside. To the cold, dry, dry, dry desert. The car is warm. Josie is warm. We aren’t touching, though. I feel the heat rippling from her plaid coat and auburn hair.
She’s a sparkly sort of creature and I love it!
As we walk in the door, I can’t tell if it’s Macey who greets us or the dark; I’m so proud! Look! This is where I live! A Queen and her Roses. Josie has to go, she will see me in the morning. I cry a little on the inside. I want so badly to cuddle and feel the weight of someone else in my bed. I want to lace my fingers in-between someone else’s and wake up with my nose tucked at their shoulder blades. I want the morning scent of bodies; I can’t smell myself until I’m mixed up with someone else.
I want to wake up and say good morning! Would you like a cup of coffee?
And then I’d go heat up some cream on the gas top stove and prepare my French Press and split the little pot into two cups evenly. I do this every day, of course, though it’s nice treating other people to a simple moment. Coffee is my favourite part of the day and I want to share it with someone as we stare wistfully out the window and watch the sky lighten and the finches dart from honeysuckle to bath.
Josie doesn’t want to sleep over. I understand. I would want my own bed as well. However, I cry silently as she leaves. My bed is cold, my room is cold, and my body blazes! I am that pinwheel that spins faster and faster. It’s so red it looks blue. It’s so magnanimous; I can’t remember why I’m so sad!
Clara and I decide to open a yoga studio together, and I don’t want to teach though I say yes because she promises to pay me in little packets of spicy tofu from Turf. I eat the tofu in a small silver car before I go and teach in a narrow room. There are cushions on the floor and I want to curl into the fetal position and cry, but I don’t because I’ve already been paid and that is rude.
Purple and blue and yellow flags hang from the ceiling and I’m grateful for the breeze. I teach all day and by nightfall, Clara arrives with more baked tofu. I don’t see her but I know she is there because of the cardboard boxes, and she KNOWS Turf is my favourite.
I wake up to the sound of the finches chatting and see a black arachnid on my desk. It’s been in my room for days. I get up and place a glass jar over it. Now what, the spider says. I don’t know, I reply. I’m sad again and want a friend, even if it means suffocation.
Photo source.
