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I CAN'T STOP BLOGGING.
Oh, don't worry, I will. Just right now I'm all excited about this new thing that I have, and it's kind of ridiculous actually, and self-centered. I know. I blame it on Hugo, my info search teacher, who requires me to have a blog. Of course, he doesn't require me to update it every five seconds for no one to see, but that's beside the point. I know. And you know.
So here's what I have to say. What follows is a title, followed by prosish ruggish rows.
THE UNICORN CALENDAR ON MY SISTER'S WALL, CIRCA 1989.
I could wander around in this weather for days, inspired and dull, all at the correct moments. Because it's just warm enough to feel comfortable, when a girl like me never really feels comfortable, not in her own skin. Then the wind will knock me around a bit, give me the punishment I deserve for being so. So self-centered, egotistical, next to shadows of humility and grace. So soft. So easy to knock around, to hurt, to open, too open, to open wide and break. But this doesn't make me like the weather.
It's this caress. Like being cleansed by a touch, like a hug from my mother, like not being so alonely. I like it when the wind brushes my hair away, tugs me into new directions against my will, my routine, my set path. It suggests places I should go that are different, where my teeth won't hurt so badly so many times of holding them together, and in away from open-mouthed laughter. There's got to be places, it reminds me, where I don't have knots in my back. Somedays when someone tough and loving will massage them out, knuckles deep into the root, the root of the pain.
There's got to be something mystical that exists between Here and Now, between so many memories of my sister's bed with the sunset comforter and the morning I would be so sick and scared when I woke up because the snot was caked all over my face and my eyes and my nose and my hands and of course its one big metaphor for covering up or rotting within or my need to find metaphors in everything. About taking someone else's pain.
About face.
And now I can let the wind beat me hard on the ears in this city and I'm looking for a place to jump. Not like jump but fall. Because we're always looking to fall. I fell for bottles and cans, not the kind of charm that I think will hurt me, and it is ironic because I can only really examine how sick this is when there are too many bottles and cans in my empty hands.
In another month things could change, like wind to sleet, or he could prove me right and wrong and write and I could find somewhere that I want to fall - not like jump but sail down from the 95th floor and float into a sea of lights or grays or beautiful dreams from 8th grade that come true, they always come true. I could fall not like jump but plummet from the rails of the metal bridges into the river and fly away with the current because it doesn't look that far and I don't want to die but I've always got something to prove about life and death and wind and love and hope renewed.
I am real and extremely valid parking tickets are swirling around the street, until I can't see where I was going with that anymore. The stream is interrupted as it should be and I'm left thinking about falling like sleep, or falling like love, or both, and I think maybe if I just keep clutching and I don't fall then the phone will ring again and we could stand in this wind together. Maybe that would keep me grounded.
My back hurts. I'll rest now.
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