my feet are covered in mud.
people are returning to this city by the sea [ok, so mendota isn't a sea. i dearly wish it was...but if wishes were fishes - and i am understood] and we are the same, but we are all so very different. funny how three months can change perspective, change eyes and hugs and truths. some things are lingering, and i'd thought they'd gone, and their ghosts are giving me a headache. terribly depressed inside milliseconds, but mostly happy.
but it breaks my h-h-h-h-heart. and it breaks my heart.
saying farewell [ farewell is so much more elegant than goodbye. goodbye is melancholy and overused, like cheap wine. farewell embodies fancy crystal champagne and pearls.] to mis chicas a espana, with cosmopolitans on porches in rainstorms. pobre mi, pobre mi. my boys are bodyguards. which, of course, is why i adore them. obviously. tangential conversations of hilarity in the backyard of the hippies, surrounding: marietta the spy, subversive water antagonisms, ground black pepper, and 'finding tennytown'. WRITERS GROUP on the roof, dangling precarious over the edge five stories high and yearning for the time (and the inspiration) to pour out the words of all of the stories in my head. did you notice that 'stories' was used in twice different context within one sentence? surely this is not that impressive, but it struck a chord. and i pay attention to the chiming in my head when it hits. 'tis rather distracting. hence: my reign as the tangent queen continues.
just to break my f-a-a-a-a-ll. just to break my f-a-a-a-ll.
headless mice in darkened dirty stairwells. i drank the last of the beautiful, orgasmic, organic chocolate milk, and i am unabashed. the fountain at the center of library mall broke my heart on friday afternoon. having rained for days prior, the pooled water had all come from the sky, and it was littered with smallish bits of the atmosphere, and of the city. but there, at the very bottom, right near the edge, was a single drowned daisy. i am doomed to remember this until my brain goes blind (as is my fate...hearing more about the descent of my grandfather makes me think of two things: the white bone and the elephants who have lost their memories, and the way that unknowingly disappearing from the world around you is so terribly sad).
i got lost. in the sounds. and i got lost.
i'd like to think that the following is false, but in all possibilities, it is entirely true. the last time i will see amsterdam, the secretary of war, and the assassin, they were marching angrily and in black, waving flags and wearing masks, protesting the flailing, floundering nazis. it's fitting, though, that this might be my last impression - a. we are the sidewalk revolutionaries of the yellow traffic lights, and b. summer is an inherently fleeting season. many things are contained within summer months that are not meant to be stretched, not intended to continue into the cooling of the earth. people love to forlorn the loss of summer, supposedly because of the temperature change. i think, on some level, it is because what they are actually missing is the freedom, and the heat [which is subconsciously linked with passion] and the raw energy that comes with the temperate vernal expression. there are feats and adventures and anecdotes of mythic proportions held beneath the hours of our summers. i relish these; i mourn their passing; i cover myself in their memories like rubber cement, like sun-bleached cotton.
i hear in my mind. all these voices. i hear in my mind all of these words.
i am a breadmaker, a heartbreaker, a chaotic [mental] rolling stone.
i am threadbare, heartbroken, infected, detected.
there is a snaking string of colored lights emblazoned in the corner, glowing:
copper jewelry and black ink.
memorizing the history of the entire world.
ivory and ebony.
i'll be outside in my two-man tent. leave me to the warrings of the world, and go.