the eternally understanding mistress
the eternally understanding mistress
You have 4 kids, but I can only remember the names of 2 of them. June’s birthday is next week. She’s turning 3? The details are starting to escape me. “You’ll sleep with married men for the rest of your life” over and over and over in my brain.
those places where families are from.
"The sun flickered, time stood still, a rift formed, a baby was born, California sank a little, orbits were changed, cherry blossoms bloomed, Bella got a kiss and called her mother, 1726, a chariot crashed, California sank a little.” (not mine)
When you were massaging my head last night it felt like you were trying to make burr holes to my brain. Trying to shove your fingers inside so you could scoop out all the things I think about you now. Removing everything so I have nothing to compare this to because if I can’t compare it to before then maybe I won’t leave.
I hesitated before I kissed you goodbye on the top of your head. You know I hesitated. And when I did lean down to kiss your head, my hair fell in front of my face and I just kissed my own hair, stuck between my lips and your hair. So when I kissed you goodbe on the top of your head I didn’t even kiss you at all.
The sex was fine. Just as it always is, except last night you got your whole fist inside me. Before, that would’ve warranted celebration, or at least positive comments about me. Last night there were no comments except afterward when you said “once I got it in there, there was nothing to do with it.”
Once I got it in there, there was nothing to do with it.
You didn’t say “what.” when you opened the front door and you were wearing a shirt, pants and shoes. Your house didn’t smell the same. A Mark Wahlberg movie was on TV. Your guitar was on the couch - you are playing again.
I do not remember ever looking directly at you. Not even this morning.
This morning you should’ve pretended you were asleep. You should not have rolled over to ask me what time it was and if it was raining or not because then when I answered you flatly and did not look at you, you had to dramatically roll back over. You didn’t roll over to caress my leg as I picked up my jewelry from the windowsill. My bobby pins are still all over the windowsill.
I am angry.
I honestly do not know how any of this happened, but once you got it in there, there was nothing to do with it.
Mosquito bites and fingers and light touches between two people walking opposite directions down a hallway. Smiles and scripts and winks and innuendo. Lewd pictures and talking too loudly. Beer and chipped nail polish and changes. Lust so bad it hurts. Fantasizing about honesty. Nerves and sighs and a complete lack of patience. Giving looks that only mean one thing. Lipstick and no underwear and a staring problem. Saccharine tones while being asked boring favors. Yes, yes, yes, get on with it, ask what you really want to know. Would I? Yes. Will I? Yes.
These things aren’t hard but they get harder everyday they’re in my brain.
Your update from Australia:
“Birds are weird & sound like alarm clocks, toast it $7, everyone drives an el cameno, crust punk bands world wide still suck, everything closes at 5 pm on a weekend. Your average person makes 50k a year. The AUD & USD are 1 to 1. Aka I’m spending SO much money. All of the houses are 1 floor, & look like new Orleans. There are hardly any chain places, everything looks like it was built in the 40’s, and beer is $25 for a 6 pack. It’s cool. The weather is like SF windy hot cold raining sunny all in 6 min.”
LOGLINE: Boyish mischief turns into disquieting Karma in the story of a young killer who takes a murdered bluebird into the forest, which swallows him whole.
SYNOPSIS: A young boy, who fancies himself a li’l Cherokee, shoots a bluebird with a bow and arrow. Wrought with regret, he takes the bluebird into the forest to bury it, pulling it behind him like a little blue wagon. The feathered corpse leaves a trail of indigo. After the funeral, and deep in unfamiliar territory, the boy decides to follow the trail home, but the trail only leads him, circle after circle, back to the fresh grave, until the sun finally sets on our hopeless Hopi.
(written by Thomas, Feb 13 2006)
11.10.04 - i wonder if the people on the other side of the courtyard think i’m crazy. squeezing my head out of that tiny window all the time to look around. i’m the only person i’ve ever seen standing at their window. someday, i’ll see someone else and we’ll meet eyes, and just keep standing at windows. as if to say “i wonder what it’s like out there.” because looking out is nothing like walking out. it’s so much better to look and think than to know that it’s not that great outside. i’ve never even been in the courtyard (it’s not even really a courtyard - 2.9.05). but my walk from here to class isn’t that great. but standing at my window, there’s nothing better. i’ve never seen anyone in the courtyard either. looking below me, i see a bottle that smashed last night. i wonder if it feel from above me. how i would’ve liked to see that bottle soaring helpless past my window. looking down, i could escape. yeah, my car’s out front, but i could just hop down. second floor, i could escape easily from you. there’s a leak between the panes of my window somewhere because condensation collects and fools me into thinking it’s always raining. cruel world. last cup of coffee from this brew. thank god for microwaves because it takes me forever to drink one brew, and cold coffee isn’t coffee. i added more sugar to this one, don’t ask me why. i guess i just figured i should add something and there was no room for soymilk. there’s work to be done. i have to pump out a story for 1:30. and shower before then too. there’s dishes piled by the sink. i should probably take care of it. but there’s a blank page next and a gray sky and music playing and bukowski waiting and plenty of coffee waiting to be brewed and that sounds just fine.
the girl i share a bathroom with always forgets to unlock my door when she’s done, so i’ve gotten in the habit of breaking into my bathroom. it makes me wonder if all the doors in this place are as easy to break into. it makes me hope that no one else has a suitemate as forgetful as mine and i bet those who do are wondering the same thing and hoping that no one else has to break into their bathroom especially not that girl on the second floor who doesn’t talk to anybody and stands at her window in her pajamas with a cup of coffee, just LOOKING AROUND.
11.12.04 - i do my laundry in the laundry room early in the morning with a cup of coffee and a notebook in front of me with a blank page open and i sit in my pajamas and read poetry or comic books with my hair pulled back and my half-rimmed glasses with my legs all tangled up in my lap or on the table and there are people around who say “people really do that?” and i say yes, i sit with my legs all tangled up reading bad poetry drinking too much coffee waiting for my laundry to be done early in the morning.
i listen to a lot of music without words because i don’t want somebody telling me how to feel. but of those people who write a lot of songs without words, my favorites are the ones with words. i listen to loud music only when i’m driving and i turn it down at stoplights. i apologize to everyone to make up for those who don’t (apologize to anyone - 2.9.05). when the plane lands, i think of an orgasm and i wish he was with me now to ask what i’m writing so i can say “nothing.”
Back to feeling like myself, thanks to one perfect text message:
'Remember when you came over last night & we had fun sex then I got a tooth pulled & it didn't stop bleeding? Is this normal?'