ubiquitous

What does a window feel during a rainstorm? Is it moment of stoicism; of standing firm and protecting the interior from the cold and the wet. Does the window look inward longingly to the warmth and dry interior? Or is it a moment of being realized. The raindrops slide down the glass like caressing fingertips. Tired of always been seen through but not seen, does the window want to collapse into the embracing arms of the rain, so thankful for being noticed?

I have been collecting things: couches, tables, rugs, bookshelves, curtain rods. The newness has worn off and I am tired. I am packing my bags in my mind. I have a list of things that I need and a list of things I don’t. As Ani puts it, “let's go down to the east river and throw something in, something we can't live without and then let's start again.”

The Gossip is a back and she is tired. So only a few hushed and rushed whispered have splintered their way from her lips to my ears and I am grateful.

I feel dusty. Like a cabinet left alone too long.

If I say I am sick of words, am I betraying my art? Let me explain. I am sick of words that pour like unfiltered water. The teeth and tongue like rocks in the river do not tame the flood, but spur it on with splashy noise. Words to guitar music in front of church. Words with static over the radio. Words over telephones. Words shouted through doors. Words like unbrushed hair. Words like a cake baked with no measuring cups. Words like a desert full of sand.

Have you ever been chewing gum and then lost all motivation to chew it? It’s still full of sugar and flavor but you gag on it and eventually spit it out.

Have you ever been clapping your hands and stomping your feet and looked down to realize you don’t recognize your hands or your feet. Your feet stop moving, you hands keep clapping and you’re confused.

Have you crossed the street to avoid saying hi to a friend whose face is sunburned and hair hasn’t been washed in days, maybe weeks. He carries a sign claiming hunger. My feet made for the crosswalk, but my hands made for my purse. “Hello, AJ! How are you? I have a multigrain and fruit bar, and peanuts, which one or both do you want?” I hold the two in front of AJ. My namesake. He chooses the slightly smooshed fruit and grain bar. I ask him how he has been. He doesn’t seem gregarious today so smile and look him in the eye. He looks me in the eye and I cross the street. This is after a 2 weeks of avoiding him. What kind of friend am I?

I feel spurious when I am there. I smile and comb my hair. But I want minutes of silence to loose myself in prayer and tears. I want space. But I also want to be apart of the neighborhood. I don’t know what to do. I feel as uncomfortable as a barbed wire fence.

It’s 3.13 in the afternoon and I am going to go sort paper now. Good bye.

Its 5.00 and Misty got mugged. Empty pockets and a black eye. Payday for homeless people with SSI is the same time of the month and a good time for mugging. Misty whom I do not trust. Misty whom I would not want to invite into my house. Misty whom I want to talk to. Misty whom I want to cook for. Misty Misty Misty. Your stories are fabulous and your hair is in shambles. Your arms are pure muscles and your boyfriend and you bike around the streets collecting cans and noticing cars.