stillness, apparently, IS the move

Today, I had a conversation of epic proportions with an elementary school counselor and it took all my willpower to not burst with joy. Sure, the conversation slipped dangerously into "Things that you talk about when you're high" territory, but so much of it was completely heartfelt and sincere. We talked about knowledge and believing and hoping, infinitely hoping, for people to be better, greater, vulnerable, defiant, and unafraid. Unfortunately, like most moments of genius? insight? delirium? I've had, much of the specifics had dissipated from my memory soon after. What did linger, though, was this shaking feeling of tangibility. The last time I had felt so human was after my cousin's death and I couldn't stop crying for the unfairness of it all.


But this was different. It was immediate and so distinctly meaningful (wonderful) that it counter-weighed, swiftly, whatever unsureness and ambivalence I've been feeling so far.


And as a bonus, I appreciated the irony that this was one of the only times I've ever actually been "counseled" by a school counselor, (albeit inadvertently), and not only was it unwarrented, but I don't even attend his school.
(This first time happened when my mom was dating a counselor for a high school in Sacramento and he gave me tips about approaching their relationship with my mom so that I would feel more comfortable about it. How's that for a mindfuck?)

But I digress. The point is, that I spent two hours this morning convincing myself to just suck it up and go into volunteering and well, the universe has given me a gentle (totally appreciated) "I told you so." So you know, appreciate each day or something like that.


Furthermore, I have made headway on that thing of prose since yesterday. Huzzah:

And so I loved her, teeth bared and furious, sinking her mouth into my shoulder as if to say, “I'm impetuous and mocking you.” The quietness of this girl became ragged in an instant. The flit of her eyelashes communicating openly: coy then inextinguishable. Suddenly she was some corporeal wildfire, licking the air with her body language.

She keeps pawing at the concaves of my body, willing into me. Pressing and insisting that she shall keep residence here. Knowing that despite my protestations, she will ache her way into my flesh and travel in the hum of my blood stream.

The flex of her fingers holding and tugging me from just above my elbow, her calf pressed against my own as our legs busy themselves in a tangle.

If you had asked me if I could be so easily beguiled, my resolve so quickly usurped by a pout into the crook of my neck, I would have responded in earnest:

Yes and always.

So here's to growth and stuff.


P.S. God, the fucking sun is bearing down on the window pane and I am very much the ant under the magnifying glass. I just want to be back in Portland.

This is me, jumping into the middle of the conversation:

So I've been living in this haze (delirium?) that feels like one part impatience to two parts mischief and I don't know when/how it started. I fear that I might be going a little stir crazy but I've been writing for the first time in months and even if it's nothing groundbreaking (it's probably barely any good), I've penned a lot. In fact, this is probably the first time I've gotten past a single sentence on any one thought since summer started. Which may be further evidence of the belief I've had that I'd make a damn good prisoner in solitary confinement. Left up to my own devices in a padded cell for a long enough time, I'm sure I could probably spew a prolific amount of mediocre poetry and keep myself amused For-Evar. My captors would have to endure years of bad villanelles and saucy limericks before I would crumble, V for Vendetta style.

(Government, this is me hinting at you to hit me up CIAwise and partner me with a Sydney Bristoweque character for some espionage hi-jinks. Sexy espionage hi-jinks.)


In any matter, I currently have this oblique fixation on Foxes and Pirates and anything synonymous in tone or language. Thus this piece of prose was born and I like it (mostly) and want to finish it somehow, even if I don't know what "finishing it" would mean:

And so I loved her, teeth bared and furious, her mouth sinking into my shoulder as if to say, “I'm impetuous and mocking you.” The quietness of this girl became ragged in an instant. The flit of her eyelashes communicated openly, from coy to inextinguishable. Some corporeal wildfire, licking the air with her body language. She keeps pawing at the concaves of my body, willing into me. Pressing and insisting that she shall keep residence here, knowing that despite my protestations, she will ache her way into my flesh and travel in the hum of my blood stream.

Oh free floating paragraph of debaucherous language, tell me where I must go! What is your solution?



P.S. If you ever want me to pay rapt and complete attention to anything, make it debaucherous.