the habit of being

Day shards.

Sleepy, sleepy. I want to curl up and submerge. I will sleep for a year or two and wake up someplace with calm lighting (peach sky) and birds that purr. You’ll crawl up behind me and rub my back and say everything that was once tinted is now translucent again. For the slightest moment I’ll look into your eyes, finding them the same as always. We’ll lean on each other there, and just breathe, just breathe. Violin air.

I’d kiss you just for being there.

I’m just sitting here on my bed. My hair’s wet and it needs a trim. My fingernail polish is chipped. I have a string around my left wrist. My computer sits on my bare legs and I’m wearing a shirt from California I’ve had for many years. My eyes burn a little. I should turn off the light.

On the bus I’m not sleeping, nowhere near. I’m watching you. And I don’t understand it. I know you are not in love with one another. You are nowhere near it. Yet you are both very happy to have someone. It sickens me not to be happy that way. And you say over and over again “Katharine has disappeared.” I hear you. Shut up. I’m not asleep. I was not asleep on the table, though I curled up there hours earlier, when it was not dark. Someone tapped my foot then. “Katharine is gone.”

Speaking of irrational things, I finished an essay today in Mrs. B’s English class about olives, the missing link, and Mozart’s Requiem. It was not a logical thing, but, you see, the topic was “discuss what you expect your life will be like in five years” or something to that effect, and I don’t foresee my life ever to be reasonable. The teacher won’t see this, and I worry for my grade, as silly as it all is.

I am quite good at visualization. It’s a pity I can’t make movies of my thoughts. I could inspire protests and progress. I know I am not the only one. My ass is getting numb from sitting the same way too long. You tell me about what is beautiful, won’t you? I’m confused and my pitch is off. The tuning fork says C and I say D flat. I don’t think forks know one iota about music, or even physics. Catch me a Siren? I’d comb her hair every night. A hundred strokes or a thousand. Make it red though, bright and shiny to sun my face in the morning.

Fire is like a tonic for fluttered-out monarchs. We sit and we watch and watch and make up beats to match the dance. Everything around fits into the symphony and the faces all seem appealing in this light. My back is cold but my legs are burning. Someong puts more wood onto the pile and sparks fly my way. I close my eyes and they are gone.

I like the concept of this, my writing a letter to you. It feels classic, you know, and girlie. This is much more a note than a letter, really. Letters are written on nice stationary with pretty oceanic penmanship and sealed in envelopes with flower petals. I have no flowers on hand, I’m afraid, so instead of a swanky letter, you’ll get a junior-high-esque note. It’ll be okay, though. Right?

They’re tearing down a fence out there.

I had French toast for breakfast. Jennifer’s dad made me French toast once. Mom put vanilla extract in the egg-muck today and it was brilliant. I had two slices with warm syrup and water with ice. I gave away three bites. They went to get fence-things. I took a vivid vivid shower. The steam (water vapor) was so thick I couldn’t even see where the water was coming from. And I saw faces and faces and lips. Breathe. I love the red light.

There were no towels, so I stood under the light until I no longer dripped and put on the same clothes I had on before. My hair fell down untangled because it is so short now. I touched the sliding glass door to see if it was cold outside. Sun can deceive. But it was warm and I went out and lay down on the porch on the bench. Sabrina was below and to the right, wagging her tail. It reminded me of the summer before last, when I took books out into the yard and read. I’d lay down in the grass and be covered with exotic symbols when I arose. Franny walked across my back and the car drove up.

All day there was pounding was a huge hammer that looked like something Bam Bam from The Flintstones would play with. The fence fell down in sections and I watched. I tied them up with the marking-string and looked for lost tape measures and I couldn’t do a thing with that hammer myself. I brought my homework out and did that. Sometimes I wish I were strong. My fingers throb from nothingness. I wonder if playing the flute is what made the top section so much thinner.

We all went out for ice-cream. I had mint chocolate chip in a sugar cone. A first date comes to mind. It was all gone by the time we got home.

I drew a tennis playing photographer for a school bulletin board. I changed my shirt and put on a bra. This is all so out of order. I miss you. I miss you. I’m doing this instead of talking to you. You’re shooting people instead of talking to me. It’s not right. I have no fence now. He knocked it all down and pulled up the posts with the man from across the street. His wife wants our dead fence for their own yard, since we’re getting a taller one. So he helped Ray with the last four posts and they’ll finish together and start putting up our old fence in the yard of the blue house across the street. They’ll have to paint it white; the current grey won’t match.

We went out to eat and I left a note for the girl who was coming over. The note was gone when we got back so I guess she got it. Or maybe some stranger just wanted it. In the booth I read about art with letters. That could be it. He tells me to make paintings based on my writing. I have some old scrawled out stuff but not much. It’s about Cleopatra and rape fantasies mostly.

Yesterday I watched The Lion in Winter and A Streetcar Named Desire. I strive for madness some days. My head is hot and my skin’s not clear. I left my trig book in my locker and I can’t do my identities. My sweater is a little bit itchy but not enough to make me take it off, because my shirt is thin and I’ll be cold. I wonder why my room is the coldest. I wish I were lost in the back alleys of Venice. I need to be taken.

If my knees didn’t creak I’d be catlike. He said I slinked, he did he did. I said I slumped. I want to sit in that rickety chair and be drawn. I want you to talk to me and tell me secrets, because for years I’ve given all of it to you, denying those who would openly love me. You ass. Just say it. I’ll never be enough. Oh I want to scream. I do, I do.

My silk shirt has a bag of books sitting on it, and looking at it I can just feel the wrinkles. I’m sorry about that. He said I never said thank you and I said saying I’m sorry was almost the same thing. People don’t often make French toast for me. I wonder how long I’ll be living in a house without a fence. I remember “Mending Wall.” I feel the push. I dream about computers these days. It’s so wrong. I miss lustful dreams. They once filled my nights, now only my days. The screen flashes blue to red.

One of the very nicest things in life is waking up with a start on a weekend thinking you have to get up and go somewhere, or maybe that you’re already late, and then realizing you can sleep for hours and hours if you want to. You can lay there happily and if you close your eyes it feels like your body is really hovering down a few inches beneath the surface of your mattress, which is the perfect temperature.

My cat, Franny, is prone to attacking my feet and biting me during the day, but at night she curls up next to me and will not move no matter how hard I try to persuade her that moving would be a good plan.

I love that. I’m a bit like that myself.

a portrait of yesterday, in 4 parts:

One.
Dramatically, I left my incompetent English teacher’s class (without even getting a hall pass!) upon hearing the news that my (competent) English teacher from last year was visiting the school to speak about her trip to Cuba. Mrs. Burke has muchly happy to see me. We hugged and walked quite slowly arm in arm back to my abandoned classroom. She loves me, like all good English teachers must.

All should be impressed with my walking out of class ever so rebelliously. I feel large. I didn’t at the time, I was too excited about seeing Mrs. Burke. I hadn’t since the end of last school year. She nominated me for GHP.

I have power. Muahahahaha.

Two.
Liquid nitrogen excites me. When a soft leaf is covered in it, it becomes brittle. It makes great pretend swamp gas. It breaks up into little beads like mercury. I must have a large jug for playtime/mad science (pinches Miriam’s cheek).

I was a nitrate ion today, by the way. Some evil sodium chloride kicked my ass and stole my silver. The nerve.

Three.
jenny: i think my nails grow very fast. someone just put nail polish on them maybe a week ago and i can already see such a nonpainted gap.
me: mine look horrible. i have a bloody spot where a hangnail used to be. right after i accidentally ripped the thing off i had to dip my hands in fixer. not cool. stingy stingy
jenny: shudder. i had two of those bloody spots but they’re finally healing.
me: you should write things for me. i’ll be your writing pimp.
jenny: write what?
me: beautiful things, of course
jenny: but what will you do with them?
me: read them
jenny: hm. ok. i thought as a pimp you would try to sell them unsuccessfully
me: no. i’ll just slap you around for not fulfilling my desires.
~
dear pimp:
updated my page just for you. now seriously going to bed.
goodnight,
word hooker

Four.
There are times I want you so badly I just quiver all over. It doesn’t fade, even now. So guilty. I can still feel the outlines of your body under my fingertips. I can’t be your theoretical best or a shirt on your back or a forever friend. We aren’t on the same page anymore. This slate will not be cleared, for all my affection. What will I do if we are never again together? What will I do if being together is not enough?

x. Days of late consist of breaking down in front of teachers and sitting on round tables to be drawn, among other things. I am calming and I despise last month without bothering to reason. With March comes grander things, I’ve decided. With my next paycheck I’ll buy myself lipstick and a new scarf. All will be well again. Scarves are fabric morphine. In a lovely fragile transparent scarf I shall be immaculate-esoteric. Just wait and see.

1. I was there today, in Mr. M’s 5th period drawing class, because we had nothing to do in Spanish. They were doing quick gesture figure drawings. Somehow I wound up on top of a table in the middle of the room for the next half hour.

As I sat in front of the drawing class I pondered (ha! these words, they kill me. no, it’s not real) what it means to -be- art, and oddly came the conclusion that it means barely a thing, because it is a common common state. My back hurt and my hands shook a little (I am glassy/trascendant/wispy I imagine; I am wimpy I know). I felt quite high though. Of use. Were some sorcerer to magically produce symmetry and self-discipline in me, I’d look into modeling as a money-making scheme. Even in my current aesthetically flawed state perhaps I could get a job at the college sitting for art classes. Actually, that is quite unlikely as they’d probably want me to take my clothes off and I am underaged. Such things aren’t commonly considered appropriate, you know. I’ll put it into my dreams and ideas filefolder, under the “things to do in college” subcategory. I’m fairly certain this plan provides many opportunities for self-improvement.

It’s quite a meditative thing, yes, and something to master.. forgetting time and peering eyes. I must prevail. I am, after all, in the center of the sphere.

In other drawing-related news, Matt and I are also supposed to be doing figure drawings of one another in our little class, starting tomorrow. He doesn’t seem to like my drag queen idea. I’m pretending this has no dampening effect on my enthusiasm over the assignment. Bodies are nice things for drawing, indeed.

2. I cried, leaning against a wall, outside the door of the room I should have been in, while my teacher told me in so many words that I am wonderful and should not be upset. This all happened after a scale exercise flew away from me and I made a joke of myself in front of 50 people or so. When one is feeling empty, public humiliation makes for a good excuse to break. And as per usual I came out of it feeling purged and better. Losing it is one thing, but gaining it back is a blessing.

Long before the blessing arrived, I left my spot on the wrong side of the band room door, walked out of the building, and leaned instead against the red bricks outside. I’d take one spot, sob a bit, walk around in a circle or two hugging my waist, and take another. A few stray cats outside the school gave me odd looks, but what else could be expected?

Late that night I decided for certain I am in desperate need of a lover, a friend, a someone. The need has been for so long projected onto my future life: Affection is something to be had alongside the peacocks in the garden of my fairytale castle or my usual table in my usual cafe in Vienna where I write my usual poetry in a sincere notebook. I will drag them to me after my escape from this tower; I will woo them all because I am femme and I am free. Love is the background for my myth.

The myth has not started; we’re still working on a good name for the heroine. In the meantime I, Katharine, am so very very lonely. There are some things my gigantic complex connection-creating machine cannot give me in online ventures. I want to be held. I need to be kissed. I more than deserve to have someone tell me they love me. And it disturbs me that this all felt like such an epiphany. It never occurred to me that now was an option.

xx. I took notes in class:
1. C. has udders. (So does S.)
2. M. has ashy knees.
3. A. has “a rain forest down there.”
4. L. eats paper.
C. supplied some illustrations and the results were thrown in the trash as the bell rang.

3.The shirt was silk, and I am glad I wore it. Most were more impressed with the sequins on the shoes, however. One even kneeled to admire them and I was lost to that moment completely. I am the kind of girl who can take one of your cookies without upsetting you, but I am not the kind you will ask to dinner.

tangent: I wonder if anything would have happened between L. and I had I knew then that perhaps a chance existed. The past takes up so very much space.

I held the camera and looked around through the viewfinder with no intention of taking a photograph. The dust on the lens makes the world seem fragmented and less intimidating. I could see addiction forming. Black Veils and SLR’s: a case study.

Fear of rejection speaks to me even through my dreams and I do not find it fun to be so typical. I want my own beautiful life-moments. It has been too long since I last felt alive. Italian ices from the freezer are not enough, not even the lemon kind. For that matter, the mint Girl Scout cookies aren’t as posh as I thought.

Sometimes my shoulders fall off my frame, causing me to look like a half-way house. And the way I sit in my desk at school causes me to seem akin to a pretzel, some state. I’ve always been rather bendable.