I never imagined you could Blow my theory apart But now you're running awaaaaay With my heaaaaart
When I'm old and senile and pooping into a colostomy bag, I'll find solace in my mental library of pop songs. I'll probably even sing you something if you slip a Krispy Kreme doughnut onto my dinner tray.
My favourite family photos from my childhood featured us (mum/ dad/ me/ bro) with the extended family on my father's side. It was a long standing tradition that we'd take one of these every Christmas or for my granddad's birthday. My dad was usually behind the camera and he'd frequently get us all into place, and make us wait while he fidgeted with the correct aperture, etc. So the 30 of us would start spacing out, fixing our hair, clearing our throats, making small talk, whatever. And he'd sneakily take a few candid shots. They always ended up being more interesting and funny than the posed ones.
The last two months: a lot of staying home, thinking, writing, cooking, and most recently translating. Die Masterarbeit ist fast fertig as it is now being proofread. Am thinking about layout, have very few ideas to make it look good. Flicking through a few magazines. I'm digging Janus, Relax, and the Purple Journal. Will take pictures when done.
I knit my first hat and sadly, it was too small for me. Having Mat around more is good for me, and I'll be sad to see him leave again. Mum and her boyfriend will be visiting in mid-June, I'll be working at Kunstraum Kreuzberg for 2 months, and I'm going to need a lot more self-initiative. Another transition and it comes soon.
"What's your real name?" "Marilyn!" "No-- your real name..." "...Norma Jean!"
We patter up the wet steps to see a young lady behind the counter, who points out the way to the top of the building. The perfectly helical stairs eventually lead us to the pool. Mat jumps in but I'm without my swimming costume. I run back to the car, find it in the back seat (tacky black two-piece) and catch a brief glimpse of the sweeping landscape obscured by the fog rolling in. I run into chums Arundhati Roy and Noam Chomsky (who introduces himself as "Gig"), both extremely affable and surprisingly cheeky. I ask for a photograph, nudge myself between the two, drape my arms over their shoulders, and we all say "cheeeeese".
Not mentioned above is a miniature baby whom I gave birth to and misplaced the other night (she was found next to my shoe, of course), my brother's black and white funeral, the infidelity of childhood friends and ex-lovers, useless limbs that don't work properly and very poor enunciation.
Knits and purls, overwhelmingly green, occasional breaks in white. Read: optimistic for spring with spurts of cold.
Finally coming to the end of 6 months' sub 10 degree temperatures, most of which were sub zero. Looking forward to some warmth. Long periods of darkness and snow are tedious. Change is good.
... whiplash, drunk, cotton mouth, wire strands. Regressing to childhood, incapable of sleep, dream-like trance. But soft: listen out for these moments before they slip away, slumbering in the nooks and crannies, barely out of view.
Cigarettes and perfume conceal grass overgrown, loosening skin. Keep up with the miracles and I'll sweep up the dust. Should stay out more to stop the wrists from bruising, from endless volleying... a couple of balls, plenty of lies, ineptness. Hold the ends and pull them taut. Let's make them all good again. I'll try not to tip the inkpot. My life is yours.
Wind wisps, cheeky apples. Shoulders back to let laughter escape from the gut.
Mugshots of the most "prolific" prostitutes in Las Vegas are now all over the internet. Comments vary from "nasty ho" to "poor girls", though in my dictionary, "nasty" is related to "hateful" as "poor" is to "pitied", so I can't say I agree. You can't ever win though, much like you can't ever have a "good" mugshot, because what you think of these women will always be of the wrong emotional shade. One day, however long ago, every one of them made the same decision of exchanging sexual favours for money. Can't do much for one's pride. Or on the contrary, one becomes wiser / more self-assured in understanding the absurdity of attaching sex to self-esteem, love, whatever. All I know is that I can't stop looking at these photos, nor can I stop wondering whether it is patronizing to make up all sorts of stories about them since I, too, have a vagina and a menstrual cycle and am, therefore, somehow entitled...?
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zazie_metro's journal
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