10.17.2009

I like the way this swing swivels and pitches out after me when I hop off and head for home. Sometimes I feel that it's movements are begging me to come back--just one more go.

I like that, climbing aboard, I am suddenly weightless. I ebb and flow, back and forth, while I watch the world as a movie because the music is too loud for me to hear much else. It's better this way: I run harder, I pump my legs with greater force. And this is when I begin to forget where the rest of the world has got itself to, and I sing. I hardly know anyone but myself--I know myself.

I like the way I yield a longer pull when I pump with my legs crossed. I haven't quite figured out the physics guiding it, but the physical guiding me senses it, and I do it again and again.

And then I begin working my hips in to it, twisting--and skeewomp is me, is the swing, is the thrumming cavity in my chest where I once touted a heart. The misdirection thrills me and my eyes close to find catharsis in it's unpredictability. After a moment or two, however, the twist slows to a routine and suddenly I'm on a new beaten path.

I like the way it feels near impossible to step gently off this swing. Instead, I jump--even if it's a mere two-incher. That maybe explains why it never seems to be satisfied with the attention I've paid, and continually beckons, motions for more. I can resist it maybe. My day need never begin; I am caught in a cycle I don't want out of.

I like it that way.

10.4.2009

The rain outside is mourning with me--crying. Here lies Dignity, it says to me. And the remnants of my former friend are hurried to the curb and down the gutter in a quick succession of plink plink plinks.

I frantically scrape the sides of an empty Nutella jar with a spoon as I think on it because I am anxious and embarrassed and frankly don't know how to handle the situation in a more mature, less animalistic manner. But I feel somewhat beastly just now. I can't help but think of Tuffy, early this afternoon: we went out. Met another puppy on our way. They made friends. Her owner and I made small puppy talk. Then we politely moved on and I turned away, walking, until the leash jerked me in to looking back. There, at the other end, Tuffy took care of business on his new friend's lawn. No inhibitions.

Suddenly, alone in the laundry room, I am much more like Tuffy than I have ever wanted to be. But much more aware of my situation and therefore much more humiliated. I'm something that people could refer to as 'it'. Thus we unconsciously name dogs and fetuses and any other things we're unsure of that don't seem to understand the term 'righteous indignation'.

And now I call myself. And I suppose that skirting around the issue via blog post number two will make me feel better. A secret outlet, through which I can be as vague and cryptic as I'd like--where I am god and can edit and delete comments at will.

But the truth of it all is that the only audience I really have is the me that is beside myself, laughing and crying simultaneously.