the habit of being

Barnes and Noble

Yesterday:

He finally got the last match lit, and we lit a candle and made a fire with the sticks I had gathered. We cooked the rice and mixed in the canned veggies, sat the pot on the embers of the dying fire, ate the soup with plastic spoons I keep in a plastic bag with other utensils, broken fork prongs, and a can opener. All this is the Italian russet pack with the signatures. There’s also a plastic bag with toothpaste, our blue and pink toothbrushes, and some truckstop soap. There’s a bag of embroidery floss for my bracelets.

We ate our rice and bread and animal crackers, heads first. We vegged for hours on the tarp. We had sex until he was so hot he needed water, and I wiped his sweaty back with the scarf which had fallen out of my hair. Then we just laid there and talked about what we liked - what was sexy. He described me holding onto the skinny little tree with the hovery leaves. I was all stretched out and long, making the whole thing shake. We didn’t play Scrabble. We had sex again.

I was using my vibrator and somewhere between orgasms in a daze. The sun was looking straight across the trees at me from the West, and in my squinty eyes it seemed like a gigantic spider advancing toward me and retreating back with each thrust. I think he saw it too. I took a bite of one of the hovery leaves. It was fuzzy on top and not as bitter as grass.He came and I worried about getting pregnant for a while, until we walked to the bookstore. I started reading about Eustace Conway, the Last American Man, and James read about edible plants.

I made a sandwich for him and we laid together. He said he hoped he’d be able to stay with me. I asked why. He said I was pretty good to him, for the most part.

He got sad, but not as much as usual, it seemed. He was nice. Full body massage and oral sex. He liked me yesterday, or something. It was a pretty day. The pink faced man was still in the bookstore (He’s not here now, but it’s early..)

I thought of things to write about as I was trying to fall asleep, but I can’t remember them. I woke up once, half asleep, and peeped out from under the green wool to see all these fuzzy glowing shapes, kindof like blackberries on the ground, made of stars. It was just daylight through the trees.

. . .

Today:

There’s a black guy sleeping in the chair I usually sit in. He has a red fleece jacket in front of his face, which is supported by his hand. I’m in the chair usually inhabited by the Asian, James is in the pink faced man’s chair reading about stinging nettles, and there’s a pretty-but-not-great-looking blonde sitting in the chair he usually sits in. She’s wearing a toe ring and keeps looking confusedly at a couple books by the same author. She has a nice bag and she’s thin. She saw me looking at her and walked away.

. . .

Later:

I just finished my book. Other accomplishments of the day include beating Scrabble-master J. with three bingoes and and highest score either of us have attained since the purchase of our travel set, finding a huge patch of blackberries on the walk to Publix to buy yogurt, bananas, and three musketeers bars, picking and eating a ton of those berries - just as big and plump as any bought for $3 at a store. And I wrote a little.

We sat for a while on a huge pipe through which a little stream ran, after picking the berries. Aside from the pipes and buildings, quite the nature scene. The stream looked clean - apart from one crushed soda can - though, eerily, there seemed to be no fish or even water-bugs. There were raccoon tracks on the bank, and plenty of trees, which we pretended to be able to identify. Maybe we got a few right. I wanted to wade around the rocks, despite the possibility of poisoned water. My hands were scratched and purple from the berries and their thorns.

James seems to think we should hike the Appalachian Trail now. We’re eating wild berries out of washed out yogurt cups; surely we’re ready to take to our hiking to the next level. He’s talking about cooking. He’s got a fancy chef book and the plant guide and he’d ready to make us a feast of grass. It’s nice. I like him best this way, I think. Second best - he’s better having sex. Third - he’d best having sex and in love with me. After having eaten. In the old world, he made me spaghetti once. The sex was beforehand that time.

It’s been a good day. A good couple of days, even.

An old black woman with a scarf in her hair saw me stooped over with my ass in the air looking for berries by the side of the road. She asked me either what I was doing or what I was eating, I’m not sure which. I said “Blackberries!” and smiled. She walked on, and a little farther down the road she leaned over as if looking for some of her own. She didn’t look very hard. I should’ve given her some of mine.

There’s a pretty girl with a spider tattoo and a Frida Kahlo purse. I miss girls. I miss Jennifer, though it’s been years. I need a friend, maybe, other than James, but I suppose I can only live in one world at a time.