There are a million ideas I’ve been playing with, constant state of crisis and reclaim. I’m collecting wreckage and garbage and good, good books. I am picking up bits of stone, adding to others sea glass collections. I am playing with words and coming with ideas that explode and fizzle, and steam. There are all sorts of theatrics here, I’m building a regular theatre workshop. Maybe a candy store, stocked with the strawberry drops and caramels I’ve taken from the little bowls in front of restaurants.
I am bursting. I just want to curl up with my stuffed seahorse and stare up at the ceiling, with the ugly light. I am a lukewarm fanatic, a quiet radical, a loud shout and burn and scream. My heart is pumping venom, my eyes are red. I am between sheets and over beds and under covers. I am of hot breath and sweat.
I spend times in lavender fields and bury my face in the fur of canines. I have puppy hands. I am spent. I am renewed. I am alive. I am comatose. I am of contradictions and declarative statements. I avoid semi colons like the plague. I use spell check and I have forgotten how to spell. I write stupid comments on posters in class and I buy Canadian things with American cash.
I swell up when I hear the word Israel and I call my mother every day. I write feminist statements and wear too much makeup. I am rising with the sun and sleeping with the moon. I am fire and ice. I am cliche and original. I am on the verge of something, on the verge of absolutely nothing at all. There are a million ideas I’ve been playing with, constant state of crisis and reclaim.
