Sugar Honey Baby

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Yesterday, as the clouds blew across the sky and the sidewalk cracks told time, I wrote a story in my head. It matches the bruises on my thighs and the crack in my forehead. 

Something inside of me has been uneven lately. Tilted. The sun helps, but I'm still not sure how swallowing a capsule can provide the same result. 

Do you need sugar pills to feel happy?

I think we all take a sugar pill of some kind. They get us through the day when the day's obligations are too much of what we do not want and not enough of what we need.

That is nothing new. 

Force down whatever acrid brine or compacted concoction you need to fuel you and your body. What is the difference, I wonder. Are you not your body? I once read a book where a supermodel and a normal human girl were in a freak accident and the normal human's brain got transplanted into the supermodel's body. The girl was amazed that her new body actually craved vegetables.

I saw an Arizona license plate yesterday. My license plate says Kansas. Isn't that strange? I think I would like to have no license plate, no $900 piece of metal that ties me anywhere. 

Today when I sat down in the sunny corner of the library, the man next to me told his headphones, "I'll just find a seat next to the bathroom so I can puke whenever I need to." Is it terminal? Self-inflicted? Apparently one in four people get cancer in their lifetime, if they're lucky. If they aren't, they'll get it twice. Or something else along with it. My mom tells us at Thanksgiving that she is ready to die. Just know, she says, I'm okay with it. She is healthy. She eats pizza and chocolate if she wants to. She does not understand the need to stretch a life longer than it should be.

I am trying very hard to not let things like shelves or bar stools or rugs or linen shorts determine how I feel or who I am. I am trying to let experiences like Marlon William's voice and the sun's rays and the wind in the trees and chicken teriyaki stir fry at 10:00 pm determine how I feel and who I am.

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Colors and Quiet Coves

Monday, November 27, 2017

Normally not the biggest fan of the desert landscape at home, but these colors and quiet coves were oh so lovely.

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Until My Latte is Cold and the Petals Fall Off

Thursday, November 16, 2017

I think they have words for this but I doubt they would do it justice, the way my heart isn't satisfied inside my body when you talk about cellular makeup and centromeres and that pasta your dad makes so well. 
Sometimes I think I could do this forever, and then you start talking philosophy and art and why soft cheese has less fat because of the hydrogen bonds and I think my heart may actually 
give out.

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The Birds Sing Here

Sunday, August 20, 2017

The birds sing here.

They twitter away, warbling through their song, on and off. The dove's coo is the most distinctive. If you want to bottle Arizona, send a dove's call from the top of a cinderblock wall.
The pool pump outside the open window hums, constant in the background, and those two things alone could place me right back in summer, any summer. If my eyes were closed, I wouldn't know the difference.
But it's not just those two things.
It's the musty smell that hangs in the air and the towels no matter how many times you wash them, no matter if you open the dusty windows. Everything is dry and cracked and cooked. Paint crackles off in bleached flakes and the water spurts through the scratchy throat of the pipes and out of the faucet's rusted, jade green edges.
I can feel the moisture being sucked from between the cracks in my skin by the greedy air, dry stucco house, hardened earth. But outside, vibrant color persists in flashes-leaves of tropical green, shoots of yellow, buds of violent fuschia-all trained to survive harsh temperatures and months of drought.
In my mind, the landscape is washed white, lightened by the inescapable, always-summer sun.

The grass is always green in Arizona.
That's not a metaphor, it's just the truth. People pay hundreds of dollars every month to spray water over acres of lawn, acres of artificial proof of financial capability.
Kids don't realize this, though. It's just green.
Kids climb trees, use the cinderblock wall as leverage even though it rubs dry, leaves a rough pattern and bits of rock on the palm of your hand. They bob in the pool as the sun finally descends behind the roof of the house, buoyant between the streak clouds above and the reflection below. Bees hum around the edge and when you drown one against the pool deck you have to watch out because the others will come to avenge him. Crinkly finger pads strip off wet suits and leave them to stiffen and bleach against the specially formulated outdoor chaise lounge cushion.
Sun streams through the hallway windows, warming the bumpy tile in slanted squares. Some of them have tiny paw prints from cats that wandered through the drying slates, through the Mexican town where the tiles were mixed and poured and dried and stacked before crossing through desert to desert.
Don't step on those.
For most of the day, you're confined to the inside. The heat reminds you of this if you try to venture out.
When dusk comes, lay on your bedroom floor. Feel your shoulder blades press into the carpet. Watch the outline of the mountains glow black against the burning white sky through the dusty window slats.

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