Monday, January 18, 2010

If I could call the rain to dance I’d ask only for one violent and passionate tango;
the black/blue sky would be shot through with
lightening & the drum of thunder would rock
the earth and I, I would court it and hold its hand.
Dance with me. Dance with me. Shake me and wake me.

And when it was over I wouldn’t mind falling to
the ground ,the wet grass, the wet dirt,
and catching up with my breath.

If I could ask the sun to be mine at night, to
come to me at the hour that he retires and slips
behind that mountain we both love, I would. I’d
invite him to tea and we’d get drunk on
laughter and lazy on words. Talk to me and I
will listen. Make me laugh. Make me cry. Stir
me with your story. Shake me and wake me.

And when he left late in the night/early in the
morning I wouldn’t mind lying there by myself
feeling empty except for the words he’d placed
into my soul.
Today I am a drowned rat. I am a drowned rat caught in this Californian Storm.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

My Roommate The Black Slug Who Oozed Self Loathing...

My roommate the black slug who oozed self loathing…
Be wary. Be cautious. Craigslist can be deadly. It can promise you gold and rainbows and beautiful things. It can (and oh! It does) reach its gentle hand forward, it’s palm overfilling with magic—“Look,” it says, “ I have ALL of this!” and you buy it, you open up both of your hands to catch some of its goodness but with a flick of the wrist, the magic is tucked back up its sleeve. It’s put away for some other naive and hopeful idiot. Craigslist hands over sticky filth.
I met her one summer day. She came skipping down the street as I dragged my laundry past the Trannie Prostitute (out for her afternoon stroll) and up my steep tiled stairs. Her hair was blond and streaked with pink. She was an artist and loved the beach. She giggled like a five year old. Perfect! Not only roommates, thought I, we could—just possibly—be great friends.
A handwritten contract was signed as we discussed how lovely life would be; we would convert the garage into a studio, we would drink wine, we would get gussied up and hit the town. Oh! The possibilities!
The following week, her father drove down to move her in. Her furniture was pink and cheap and she sat at the bottom of the stairs as I helped her dad and uncle carry it all up into my beautiful little apartment. I told myself that it didn’t’ mean anything. I told myself that I could live with the giant sea foam green hutch she dropped down next to my lime green living room wall. Relax, Aubrey. Don’t be a bitch, Aubrey.
And then a giant bomb was dropped: “ I am just coming from an in-house clinic. I have been battling an eating disorder since I was eleven.”
Translation: “I hate myself and am terribly needy.”
I don’t mean to be crass. I sympathize. There is not a single girl who hasn't had the thought of "What would it be like if I could just expell from my body that giant feast that I just rushed down my gullet."I just didn’t mean to sign up as a half way house. I didn’t want to wake up and find my full gallon of Rocky Road ice cream gone. I didn’t want to have to take down the sign I’d made and posted inside of the fridge that said ‘When you think about eating, think about sex instead.’ I didn’t want to have to clean vomit out of the toilet bowl.
At first, I remained hopeful. I didn't judge. I threw those worrisome signs out of the window. I helped her unpack and clung to the thought that this was going to be a good situation--perhaps not perfect, but good was good enough. I suggested movie nights. I invited her to hikes. Sometimes, in those brief moments, things were as I had envisioned them. We were on the verge of forming a friendship. But then she would slink back into her room; the door eternally closed.
And then a scent began to crawl from out under the eternally closed door. And then, all of the sudden, my beautiful little apartment began to be home not just to the two of us, but to a family of ants. And then cockroaches. And then that deep dark hole of negative self-loathing. Her energy invaded the house and flooded everything in my life. I stayed away. What could I do? She had no intention of getting better. This was her card and she intended to carry it with her so long as she could.
"I couldn't go pay the electric bill all week, because I'm sick and my heart may fail. No, I didn't think to tell you that you should go pay it..."
"I can't take the trash out even once, else I may end up in the hospital again."
"I can't wash my know, I'm sick, right?" And so her dishes (my dishes, mind you) piled up in her not-yet-unpacked room, one on top of the other; old food crusted onto them. When all of my 16 bowls had vanished, I braved opening the eternally closed door to reclaim them. Every surface of dresser, bedside table, clean spot on floor, was littered with food remains...some crawling with little bugs. My blanket that I had been missing was crumpled up on the foot of her bed, my movies strung across her bedroom floor.
Later that evening, when I knew what I must do, I told her what I had found. She claimed that I had no right to go into her room to capture my things. I told her that she had the right to move on and find a new house to infect.

Life is short. She has since moved out.

Monday, January 4, 2010

A Love Poem

I want to wrap you in stars and whisper kisses into your ears, onto your beautiful mouth.
I want to throw you into the wind so that I may watch you dance, this way, that way, your skin barely grazing my arm, my leg; warm.
Today marks the day of a new decade and all that I can think is that I want to spend it with you. All that I can see is your smile.
I didn’t know that we could ever love so strongly.
So strangely. So beautiful.
I want to swim in the thought of you—where all those brilliant fishes survive—and catch my toes on seaweed and dig my fingers into the sand.