Today the president of the country I live in signed away more of my rights as a woman. Today the president of the country I live in also dropped a bomb. The largest nonnuclear bomb in history. My coworkers and I gather at her desk and together try to loop our heads around it. This is history, we say. The desk under our forearms feels exactly like what it is--a heavy piece of wood, a thing made to hold and house other things. And there are things around this heavy piece of wood, more things and more--even the floor I walk across to leave for the day is a thing. I am starting to hate things.
It is so quiet in the elevator and I am alone and want to cry. I can't because the anvil in me is also a sponge. On the drive home I extract my heart shove her on the antennae and let wind fleck her blood all over. She shivers only slightly, a warning. Meat exposed to element rots.
Thursday, April 13, 2017
Sunday, April 9, 2017
There is this moment of being a writer that repeats itself, unannounced and erratic, in the most darnedest of places. This moment I'm talking about is a welled up suckerpunch, landing somewhere between chest and gut. The feeling hits then spreads, something intravenous--warming neck then elbow crook then shin bones. Maybe it is less moment and more need, internal and urgent, all over. Not just a need but a must. I do not simply need to write things. If I miss this moment the black hole widens. The flame pulls to smoke, a cell might give up. Sometimes love and necessity get all mixed together. Sometimes(these moments) I know exactly what my duties are.