jacktellslies: (crow)
One of the dishwashers with whom I work approached middle age like a traveler, and as he was obviously only curious and exploring the territory, age has mostly left him alone. He's a beautiful man, tall and quite dark with admirable dreadlocks. He has the sort of hands that one would expect could do any number of things, but I think mostly he reads.

He is the grandson of a woman who was blind, but could see the future. And she told him once, with what was for her unusual solemnity, that if he ever saw a black bird suddenly fall directly out of the sky, as if it had bashed its brains on the sun, the world was about to get so bad that no one would want to live in it anymore. It happened in 1995.
jacktellslies: (sebastian)
Alligator teeth line my mouth, my throat, my stomach. The crow and the shaman in me want to sit down somewhere by myself and tear them out, one at a time.

Once or twice I've opened a fish that was torn up on the inside. It wasn't the mush of belly rot, a thing that surprises me more with its lacking than with its presence. It had swallowed something bad, something sharp. I understand that fish are little more than mouths and instinct and tubes, but I can't help feeling that they should have known better.

What does one do with the bits that don't work? Everything I help to ruin, I ruin in the same way. (This is not nehilism, I swear I'm only being pragmatic.) So how can I fail to change that? And how can I change that? I'm not sure any one of us could recognize ourselves without our myriad lies. So what do we do? Is the trick to tell ourselves new and better ones, honourable, desirable lies, until they become true? Or is it only too much whiskey and too much blood and falling asleep wondering if we'll wake up, and if we do, what we'll be? I'm not sad, but it is winter, and it is dark, and I need to understand. Honestly, honestly, what am I?
jacktellslies: (bear girl)
I talked to Alex. There was music, and a big salad with strawberries in it. I have a secret diary on the answering machine of my friend Liz's mobile phone, and fountains are lit at night and children splash in them, and the sky roared and the universe was aligned perfectly: the safe little bombs, and the only break in the trees, and then me. My niece and my sister and her boyfriend came for a visit, and we went to one of the science museums. We played with magnets and electricity and with a glass armonica. Allyson is three, and afraid of lots of things. We offered to take her on the real train that would have taken her on a ride of four feet very, very slowly. She told us that it was too big, and that she likes small things. She claimed to have a small and pink train at grandmom's house called the Allyson Rose. She then explained that she flies by holding on to balloons. While flying, she catches birds in her hands. Upon catching the birds, she turns into one herself. She wanted to watch the kids splash in the fountain, too. Debbie came to the house, and later Courtney came, too. We watched movies: Josephine Baker in Princess Tam Tam, a weird little exercise in colonialism that I'd like to read more about, and In the Realms of the Unreal, an orphan-turned-reclusive-menial-worker's room and fifteen-thousand page novel and autobiography and photographs and tracings and collages and dreams.
jacktellslies: (crow)
I dreamed, the other night, of a boy who wasn't quite you. He was terribly pretty, of course. His hair was darker than yours, but he pulled it back the same way that you do, or did. He was a different sort of pale, and what he wore was dark. We walked in a wood like one near my mother's house, although it was greener, and the light was clearer and stronger through the leaves. The houses and the fences were gone, but the feel of people was near. He was a crow when I met him. We talked. And he killed a girl, a little pretty and blonde thing. I was horrified. But you're a crow. He admonished me for admiring too much to see what he was beyond the name. I woke believing that if he'd done it, there must have been a reason. He must have been right. When I woke enough I knew that to be wrong. He was a bad one to have visited me while I dreamed. But I like him. Things are waking up in me. And in the waking world, I won't be killing some of the things that I'd been paid to kill any more. The company has deemed it inhumane. I'm ambivalent. It was not a good death. But we felt pride in the way we tried to keep them comfortable, in the way we tried to do it fast, and do it right. And perhaps we took too much pride in it. There is a part of me that half enjoyed it, a part I don't like to admit. But people only worry about the cruelty because they can see it. How does the rest of it die, before it gets to us? Do they dry and choke? Are they bludgeoned? Who watches, and who cares? If there are any left at all, I'll buy one today, and kill it one last time, and I'll eat it myself. Eating a thing, if done properly, is like thanking it. It is taking it in and dealing with it. It is a sign of respect. And then I'll be done with it. That was the dream.

I waited on the most charming and pretty deaf girl yesterday. She signed at me as if I'd understand, and I talked at her as if she'd understand, and we mostly made sense of one another. She smiled so much under her flapper hat when we did. I helped her all over the store rather than mopping the floor. I don't remember much sign at all, but I think she may have said something quite nice. If she returns, I'll slip her my email, a thing I've never actually done before.

I have crushes on everyone again! This has not been true for some time, and I am enjoying it so very much. (A great many of you are so completely charming.)


jacktellslies: (Default)

August 2009

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