I was very warm, a moment ago. Though it's all been sucked away now, into the room. I moved too far from my blanket and the warmth was swept upwards. I found a jumper on the floor and put it on, stringing my iPod through the neck-hole as I pulled it down over my body.
I had a nice day today. There were Mary-Janes in the form of boots; and the curse of modern oversized sunglasses. I walked through the city as myself today, holding the hand of someone beautiful.
I saw an old friend in the Medicare branch. Bronwyn. I haven't seen her for six years. I still managed to recognise her without a second take. A hug and a little recollection later, and we promised to say hello on FaceBook. Friendship is so much easier without the exchange of phone numbers; there is so much more room for expansion, and multi-user visitations. Seven friends are communicatible with one copy-and-paste - a shared question about a long night of booze and lost memory and FaceBook makes feel like you're not alone in your torture.
***
The delicacy of a girl is difficult to remove, though inevitable. The river flows in all directions, my mother and the blood that she gave to me through childbirth has drained. She will never be removed, and really, I would never like her to be.
I booked a ticket to Sydney this afternoon. Two way, this Saturday to next Wednesday: $188. I wonder if it measures out. At my rate, that's one 9 hour day of desk-work. Why haven't I been doing this all year? Why haven't I travelled all across Australia, spending my wages on tickets and adventure, instead of ... of what exactly?
Because I was learning how to remove my delicacy.
Janet Fitch once wrote a poem about rivers. They were women, she wrote. "Starting out as small girls, tiny streams decorated with wild flowers. Then they were torrents, gouging paths through sheer granite, flinging themselves off cliffs, fearless and irresistible. Later they grew fat and serviceable, broad slow curves carrying commerce and sewage, but in their unconscious depths catfish gorged, grew the size of barges, and in the hundred year storms, they rose up, forgetting the promises they made, the wedding vows, and drowned out everything for miles around. Finally they gave out, birth-emptied, malarial, in a fan of swamp that met the sea."1
For now, I'm transitionary. Dilated only 8 centimetres. Waiting to see.
I had a nice day today. There were Mary-Janes in the form of boots; and the curse of modern oversized sunglasses. I walked through the city as myself today, holding the hand of someone beautiful.
I saw an old friend in the Medicare branch. Bronwyn. I haven't seen her for six years. I still managed to recognise her without a second take. A hug and a little recollection later, and we promised to say hello on FaceBook. Friendship is so much easier without the exchange of phone numbers; there is so much more room for expansion, and multi-user visitations. Seven friends are communicatible with one copy-and-paste - a shared question about a long night of booze and lost memory and FaceBook makes feel like you're not alone in your torture.
***
The delicacy of a girl is difficult to remove, though inevitable. The river flows in all directions, my mother and the blood that she gave to me through childbirth has drained. She will never be removed, and really, I would never like her to be.
I booked a ticket to Sydney this afternoon. Two way, this Saturday to next Wednesday: $188. I wonder if it measures out. At my rate, that's one 9 hour day of desk-work. Why haven't I been doing this all year? Why haven't I travelled all across Australia, spending my wages on tickets and adventure, instead of ... of what exactly?
Because I was learning how to remove my delicacy.
Janet Fitch once wrote a poem about rivers. They were women, she wrote. "Starting out as small girls, tiny streams decorated with wild flowers. Then they were torrents, gouging paths through sheer granite, flinging themselves off cliffs, fearless and irresistible. Later they grew fat and serviceable, broad slow curves carrying commerce and sewage, but in their unconscious depths catfish gorged, grew the size of barges, and in the hundred year storms, they rose up, forgetting the promises they made, the wedding vows, and drowned out everything for miles around. Finally they gave out, birth-emptied, malarial, in a fan of swamp that met the sea."1
For now, I'm transitionary. Dilated only 8 centimetres. Waiting to see.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
*pants slightly*