Oh, & also: my mother broke her arm a little over four weeks ago. Fractured it in two places on her last night in Victoria. I spent three hours making her a card. Ripping out images and appropriate phrases for healing from several New Yorkers. I also sent her some shampoo for colour-treated hair.
Whipped back. It wasn’t a place to whip your head back. So I turned it, gradually, every inch of my neck, as I was walking by. As if in passing. Raised my right hand--a peace sign in the direction my head was turned: fully, facing the young man with the Green Peace folder.
Coming at me from the opposite direction, the usual checkered man, just past middle-age and in the shape of an old potato, the usual, saw me smile with my hand raised. My mouth slackened after I passed the Green Peace and potato-man said to me, “I love your smile.” He said, “I love your smile.” Pity, giant peach of a pity there was no one there to see it. The process. Save for me.
I have photos to post of my boyfriend peeing in a public urinal while gazing at me through a fair chunk of hair. A few others of him reading Atwood. If you can’t beat them, join them. I’m letting him into my know.
A thing other than drugs, sex, and the opening of heart (mine, specifically): went all the way out to Sooke Potholes this month. After a few good hours of concentrated and rather skillful rock-hopping and trailmix, Jaxon and I came upon who we were supposed to find and I proceeded to fall into the water, soaking my last two French cigarettes (I’m over it. Though, at the time, I did make the attempt at drying them in the sun. All they did was brown so I let them go) and eventually, after a few attempts at feet planting, sinking back into the water still around me in resignation, face up. After that I swam through the caverns in my bra. At some points, I clung to the slime on the rocks, but couldn’t bend my palm enough to achieve true grip, “This is like a horror movie,” I said. One of those times. Death from above. My three boys floating all around me.
He has this friend that likes to make jellyfish drunk until they slide down the rock they were sticking to. When he was in the fourth grade, he had to ask his teacher, Mrs. Robinson, for an extension on a project and started to cry terribly. Mrs. Robinson told him that he’d better marry a nurse, or someone who could take care of him. He has a tattoo between his shoulder blades. Two little notes. They mean peaceful and healthy in Chinese. I sleep like a motherfucking rock beside him, even though he snores from time to time. & like: he used to be a member of the Folio Society. I walk into his room for the first time and I'm all like, "What the fuck? You have all these Folio books on your shelf. What's going ON??" (I thought you were just a guy with a perfect body who liked to wear things ironically from time to time while laughing about it on the inside &tc.). He grins his usual puppy-dog, "I used to be a member, they're so nice, eh?"
After Woolly Mammoth at Lucky (with Matt & Xavier), a drunken walk home & sex, Jaxon (that’s how his name is spelled, I’ve since learned) is naked and extended, his whole side toward me, against the bed. “What do you think of me,” he asks.
I myself am sitting upright, back against the wall, “What do you mean? I like you,” I say.
“No. I mean: what do you really think of me?”
Perceptive little bastard. Did I forget to mention this: he’s perceptive in a way that gives me chills. Must have dated a lot of girly-girls. You know the type. The type that keep you guessing into a prison of your own making. ANYWAY: I half dive, half lean over him, grab my bag and extricate a cigarette. Once it’s lit I say, “I don’t know. I mean. I’ve been reading a lot of Margaret Atwood lately. Basically everything she wrote.”
AND THAT WAS MY ANSWER. THAT WAS MY ACTUAL ANSWER.
I’m not quite sure where I was going with that. Not quite. I said other stuff, but he started to fall asleep by then. It was a confusing question, all told. The little shit sure as hell asks The Right Questions to the right people. And FUCK--he's HAWT.
The first time I fucked him a few nights ago (we went swimming at the beach beforehand and then proceeded to get drunk while dancing &tc.) we were on blow. I started To Ball. I never cry in front of people. I Never Cry In Front Of People--is what I told him. A few times. He took it really well, wanted me to cry more. I couldn't do it. I never had that kind of request from a guy . . . .usually they would either ignore me or give me a toddy to "calm me down." I'm a different person now. To anyone who hasn't witnessed the transformation: I'm harder and no longer cry when hurt. I just don't give two shits to BE hurt anymore.
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This morning I started to feel it.