at times there is a heaviness to your breathing that leaves me sitting with the last five months in my mouth. there is a wonder and a concern and a dissatisfaction that could never go away or could disappear in one year. there is a tropical rainforest awaiting exploration and dance steps that are yet untaken, but for now there is a seed. it is filled with something that i cannot see for i am too afraid to crack it open and look inside. peeking may result in a knowledge that is unfair to posses. but certainly, there cannot be a doubt, how i do love you. life can sometimes sit in a hammock, swaying in the breeze between two curved trunks that are marked with knife points and with the end of its own sharpened branches. at these times lovers names are scoured for infinite time into the supporting boles of eternity. a serene moment life enjoys at these points, and it smiles down at me, sucking on sugar cane and laughing at the unimportance of tooth rot. and then life is looming not in a hammock but it seems hanging from a thick gnarled rope. its face is blue and i cannot bear to look at the gore of its imminent death because in me it stirs a fear much too great for everyday ordinariness. but those are the dark moments and as quick as they are to overtake me, they are quick to leave me, blown away by your heavy breathing. I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

i wish upon her the greatest emptiness. one that she finds inside herself, inside the crevice specific to every female. I hope she tries to fill it with men that will never satisfy her. i hope it leaves her more empty than when she started. she keeps shoving in and pushing, grinding with all her might, panting with the effort of throwing mass into the space, filling the void, yet i hope she is never able to. large, small, thin, thick, crooked, pointed, flat, and helpless they will be. some are impressive upon first glance, but they end up looking the same after, shriveled and sad and mostly as if they wear their failure in their gaping faces. i hope that the faces, still slick with human slime and grimacing with the pangs of their satisfaction, leave her revolted with herself. inwardly she will revile and lash out at others, but every atom in her will be going towards seeking out the next tool with which to throw dirt in the hole. and i hope the dirt is stained and empty, fruitless and bare, merely black particles lacking life and promise. though she may try to find more life in it, though she may seek out the fertile soil with which she was once filled, and though she may take it in her mouth and suck out the iron taste just to pretend it is the same nutrient rich substance as before, it will only crumble in her mouth and dry out her tongue. Cracked red lips, sore from tasting a dry, dusty, and impoverished mouthful will prevent her anger from spilling from her lips. it will only be able to build up inside her, rotting her organs and implanting seeds of doubt-the only things capable of growth in the dirt she eats. and i wish her revelation. i wish the weight of her burden to be unbearable, to leave her scarred in a way that changes her heart. i wish her the greatest void. and here you are, an implied side effect and a shape that is visible on her person as a gaping hole. You are torn from her skin but she gave you the blade with which to free yourself. and now that you have gone...

why they should have called love banana

because the curve of your muscle at the point in your arm where i bury my face is that shape. Because the peel is as thick as the layer of love that must be removed before you carefully place my heart in your mouth. because the strings of white flesh are similar to the ones that hold together the fibers of my soul. the soul that breathes for you. its the concealed insides that could be imagined as a boat for you and i to sail away on. it is the bruises that can be found along the body, soft brown and tender. we sometimes suffer similar pains. we sometimes feel just as silly. its the melting shape from the quarter machine, the fading yellow candy that disappears on your tongue. you weed out the red hearts, the blue berries, you seek out the banana. let it dissolve into sweet syrup and run down your throat, like the kiss i give to you. when honey drips from between met lips the smile is that shape. when a tearing sound is heard in the room and the skin of it breaks, two hands let go and the noise is the same. its the tattoo she had on her hip and the one she showed you with a devilish smile before you wondered what life was for. it is the letters that make it love, the way it rolls off the tongue and floats away in a twist of fat letters, bumping into the ear and twisting its way in like happiness. B for better now. a for at last. n for never leaving. a for actually feeling life. n for now. a for admitting love is in the smallest detail of the yellow skin of a ripe banana.

about me

the whole world is a swirling blue film of slanted light and bent images. there is soft tinkling sound in the distance, the filter maybe. there is a quiet stiffness to the viscousness in my ears and eyes. my eyes are open and they are burning. above me two legs are floating in the blue sky, kicking like a newborns. Toes are clenching and unclenching, fists banging the surface. my hair is suspended around my face, long and blonde as it is. it creeps past my lips. my puffed cheeks. i blink slowly. i let my chest graze the cement bottom, my body hanging vertical above the floor. my bathing suit catches on the rough surface and makes me stick for a second. my legs are kicking softly, from the knees down. i am trying to stay just above the ground. i keep floating upward, little by little. im trying to be as still as possible. there is a loud crash behind me and i am surrounded by a million tiny bubbles that tickle my ankles and thighs. my lungs start to burn. i do not glance back to see who has come into the still moment i was having alone, at the bottom, away from the melted ice cream sandwiches, the screaming children, the menacing lifeguard. i keep floating under the blanket of blue, high on the peacefulness. when i close my eyes, the chlorine is stinging badly. i take both palms and plant them on the ground, shove myself toward the surface kicking hard and burst through sucking in air and taking deep breaths. i hear my name though i ignore it. i want to go back under but my ears are popping and ringing with the change in pressure, the release of the water. i push a strand of long, blonde, wet hair away from my forehead and just sink low enough in the water so my mouth is under. i swim carefully to the side of the pool and grasp the metal gutter the encircles the inner lip. feeling my way along the side with little toes on the wall, crab walking with my hands, i edge towards the deep end. mommy is standing there. she is holding out a towel like she wants to show me the design. i know she wants me to get in it though, get out of the water and step into her hug and i know she'll wrap me in that towel. it will be warm and soft and smell like the grass. shes talking to someone over her shoulder. its not really time to get out yet. if it were shed be looking right at me. shed have the look. the one she gets sometimes when im in big trouble. but for now shes distracted. i go back under. I can barely hear her call to me again as the sounds fade. i swim deeper. all of a sudden, theres tate. shes looking me in the face from just inches away with cheeks just as puffed as mine, holding in a little less air. shes swimming in that spastic way, twitching all over to try to stay under. somehow it is always just her bottom that floats to the surface and bobs there while the rest of her body is under water, reaching to keep her from surfacing. she has her eyes open as do i. she is just kicking. holding her breath. looking at me as she sways. she is smiling. the air comes from her mouth and nose in a burst of white bubbles as she laughs under water and has to surface before she swallows any. i watch as her tiny body swims upward, past mine. my eye level meets her chest, strained with effort, her pumping arms, her belly thats still rotund with baby fat, and her knees. finally, her toes wiggle past me as she makes it to the surface. when i am alone again, the silence envelops me. i feel fatigue creeping through my bones. six long hours of swimming. im nine. i love it. i settle into my favorite thought - what it will be like when i get a boyfriend. It is all i think about. i know one day ill put my fingers in his hair like nanny does to grandpa. i know he'll speak a language i dont know. maybe hell be from another planet- like le petite prince. he'll be just my height and have very dark eyes. he'll smell like summer and happiness and like this moment, in the pool, at the bottom of everything, watching people swim though the sky. when he holds my hand i'll know it fits like a lock and key and when he whispers to me in his language, ill let the words roll over me like waves on the sand - massage me, mold me, move me. his name will fit perfectly in every haiku, his ears will be soft and he'll smell like my mom. as the water creeps into my nose a little farther, and again i feel the burn from lack of air, i make myself stay under. the pain will help me find him sooner i tell myself.

mi nombre es olivia. no one but god gave me that name. when i died, my husband went to the back yard and sat staring at the sky for three days, praying for rain. it came too. i made sure of it. he said looking at the storming skies was like looking into my own eyes. he said my eyes were just as likely to kill him as lightning. he told me this on our wedding day. tus ojos me matan, he said. it was the second time we had met. we are from mexico. the two of us living under the confusion and the struggle that she can bring. she can be so kind, and so furious, she is a greater storm than my eyes could ever hope to be. my husband and i both worshipped her though, which is why we left her. not to die under the hands of whom was in power, but with promises of return, with kisses and gifts and of course, more promises. she did not let us go without a fight, a lasting impression meant to sting and to communicate we were never to leave her angry again. My three year old in my arms, i prayed to god that we never would. but those were the days in which i was strong, and happy. my body was still bursting with life and ready to bear two more children. my children of opportunity i called them. born in los estados unidos, they were the ones who wanted mexico the most. they were special to me in every way, but neither could be to me what my first born son was. like my name, god gave him his name as well. this i will not tell you yet, but i will confide that for my second and third children, god was silent, no longer demanding a name in his taciturn way. i named them myself and i could only pray that if god had stopped listening, then maybe he could find a small second to let me know i had chosen the correct ones. but he never sent a sign, though mi madre assured me that he was everywhere, all the time. so frustrated: i could get so frustrated when she said this. but that is something else.
Olivia comes from olives, as in the olive tree: a symbol of peace, dignity, and fruitfulness. when my mother was in labor with me, she was on a small cot, in the middle of a war. there were black curtains on the windows so no one would be able to see the candles lit inside, flickering shadows around the tiny room. she swore that for most of the labor she was delirious, not remembering anything later on and swearing she was in conference with He himself. just as her neighbor was preparing another vat of hot water with fresh towels, in preparation for catching me as i came gushing out in all my glory, she heard a tiny cry. coming quickly back into the room she saw my mother and me, clean and soft, folded among heaps of sweat drenched sheets, happily cooing to one another. the story goes that she almost fainted from disbelief, but more importantly she knew my name before it ever left my mother's lips. she says it was hanging in the air like a thick cloud of fog, scented with honey and rain. she whispered it as she sat on the ground by my mother's side and began to pray. at the same moment, the name was uttered from my mother's mouth, the last 'a' lingering for a second longer before it floated into the air like an irridescent bubble and bursted. and so, i was named simultaneously by the two women, but firstly by god.

rei y reina

i met you in my dreams. the air is milky and foggy and i feel giggly. but you take my hand under a sky that is half lightning and half blue. eres mi cielo. at first we are in a garden or park, outside. then i am suddenly small enough to tiptoe across your eyelashes. when i see the canyon of your face below, i see your mouth. that fold of intention that shows me nothing. i am holding your hand again, wavering between happiness and stone cold sobriety. we are in a field. my hair is so long and

your hands are in it, twisting curls that stay in place and my hands are on your back, touching muscles and moving up to your face. im kissing both your eyelids and i taste something wet. my hands feel soft and then yours they have met. i can feel your weight against my own. at that moment your whispering something i would never have known. i want to say stop because it feels too good, but the rhythm of your motion makes me know i never could. when i look for your eyes from the distance im sitting, they look too far away and much too admitting. there is a pang of guilt silenced by a smile. youre taking my hand again and we're running for miles. your legs are pumping in front of me with the effort of your gait, i have the sudden urge to make us both late. releasing your hand i stop and look back and your form disappears like a train down the tracks. im alone in the fog and my heart is beginning to crumble, but from a far distant place i can hear a small rumble. your voice finds me wiping away tears that dry in the wind. to be unable to find you would be to have sinned. i search under rocks that are really just fog and i search under something that looks like a log. but i just keep hearing the words in the air, te amo mi reina and i can see your deep stare. i hope that i find you in my arms when i wake, but all i see is an empty lake. i try to surface to consciousness again, but youre calling my name and telling me ven. im stuck in a dream that is changing my height where im walking on eyelashes and flying like a kite. when my eyes finally open im in my warm bed, morning is here and sleeps colored my cheeks red. theres a light on my pillow where the sun shines and my heart sinks in my chest because the covers are just lines. they show me the emptiness of the day, ive left you in the dream unaware you're mi rei.

and some more fiction. it is now a writing blog.

When I sit down to write something comma, a lot has to go into the actual act of sitting down period. When I sit down to write anything comma, in fact when I sit down at all comma, there are preparations that must be made beforehand period. I must clean the chair with three sheets of bleach wipes period. I must scrub the actual place where my body will touch the chair and I must wipe down the back of the chair and arm rests as well period. I must check three times that I have not missed any speck of dirt or piece of lint period. I wipe the container that holds the bleach wipes and set it on the desk next to the computer period. In order to touch the keyboard of the computer comma, I must first wipe that period. I cannot use bleach however because it corrodes the whiteness to a dull sheen which does not please me period. I keep a box of tissues next to the computer comma, on the left side comma, and use those to wipe the keyboard period. Then I turn the computer on period. I can begin now to organize my thoughts because I am sanitary and the thoughts have a safe comma, germ free place to enter into period. Now the writing begins period.
I should probably explain period. I have a habit of announcing punctuation comma, and no matter what comma, it will not subside period. For this reason I do not use contractions period. I mostly use commas and periods because it is the least amount of punctuation period. I cannot get away with not using punctuation because when I write it is like a demon takes over my hands period. I must put the punctuation in or it will stare me in the face period. If I try to leave out the announcement of punctuation comma, it too will stare me in the face until I make it right again period. Believe me comma, there is nothing I can do to stop this demon from taking over my writing period. But I want to write so badly comma, that in fact on the days when I try to steer clear of the computer comma, I feel like I am going crazy period. Just like the punctuation and bleach wipes comma, just like the white sheen of the computer surface comma, the need to write haunts me period. I believe I have a story to tell period. I believe that people should know what individuals like me go through on a regular basis period. So here is my story period.

I was born in California in 1985 in San Francisco period. I am an only child comma, thankfully period. I say thankfully because everyday comma, I lose more and more people in my life period. I lose these people because they finally get sick of putting up with this period. I do not blame them period. Living around me is the most maddening thing comma, but try living inside of me period. Having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is like being possessed comma, as I have already explained comma, but not just in writing comma, in everyday life period. Occasionally comma, I will take ten minutes just to wash my hands period. Sometimes comma, I will occupy one seat for two hours because I simply cannot will myself to stand period. It is against the force inside me of which I do not control period. I even have a name and a sex for this force because it is so great period. It is a man and his name is Ed period. Not Ed Period comma, but Ed period. Ed has been inside of me since my first memories of being a little boy period. Ed has always talked to me and I have always attempted to talk back to Ed in order to keep him under control comma, but the thing is that Ed is like a dad period. Asking Ed if please just this one day you could both just skip the whole routine of the morning is like asking your dad if you can have chocolate ice cream at two in the morning period. It is like asking your mom if you can slam the tail that belongs to the cat in the front door for no particular reason period. All three individuals comma, Ed comma, Mom comma, and Dad would look at you like you were JOKING RIGHT and then say a flat out NO period. So comma, Ed controls what I do and he rarely comma, if ever comma, asks what I think about the matter period. I try to have a sense of humor about being possessed period. In school I always attempted to make jokes out of my irrational behavior period. When I had to excuse myself from science class to wash my hands three times every hour comma, I would laugh and say HERE HE GOES AGAIN period. But somehow comma, those jokes did not go over so well with my peers period. I did have to make friends in the first place however in order to lose them as I have told you has been happening to a greater extent lately period.
My first friend was Lucy period. She was the only person I have ever loved and I will only ever love her period. Lucy suffered from the same dilemma that most people who try to be my friend suffer from period. They think they can change me period. They think that they are the one person who has a soul that is free enough comma, a spirit of individuality that is contagious enough comma, and a sense of morality that is mature enough that I will just realize I have to change period. But it does not work that way comma, and Lucy finally figured that out period. It just took her longer than most people period.
Lucy held me when I was a baby period. I often asked her if I sucked my thumb rhythmically or if I cried in three succinct squirts of volume comma, perentheses (in order to determine if Ed was with me at that time) period. She always said NO RYAN comma, YOU WERE PERFECTLY NORMAL. I suppose she was telling the truth comma, she was there period. But the thing is Lucy would have said anything to me to make me BETTER period. She would have told me that I truly was an alien comma, and when she said it she would be wearing that convincing look she always wore period. The one that was wide dash - eyed and full of conviction comma, the one that could make me do just about anything period. Her blonde hair would fall down and frame her tan cheeks as she leaned forward to tell me a secret period. Her brown eyes would suck me in and I would try to look away and brush her off period. I would say DO NOT SAY ANYTHING LUCY comma, YOU DO NOT SAY ONE WORD BECAUSE I WILL KNOW IT IS NOT TRUE period. Lucy would grab my arm as I attempted to turn and walk away from her comma, and I would find myself staring into that look again period. She would be dead serious and I would feel like a baby period. I would hear my own whining voice in my ears and feel like crying because I was ashamed period. She would speak and somehow convince me period. She had me under her thumb for my whole life period. She had me up until about one year ago comma, and then she just took the thumb away period. And I missed the pressure of it and I wanted the thumb back period. I wanted the feeling of being controlled by Lucy period. She was all I had for most of my life comma, and then she was just gone period.
When Lucy was five comma, I was born period. She lived in the same town as me and we went to the same schools period. But Lucy was older and popular and she was a cool girl who was a rebel period. If I could be anything in my life comma, I would be a rebel period. I would rebel against Ed and I would break free and I would feel things like normal people period. I would not want to feel the things that Lucy felt though because she never had good things to say about those things period. Lucy met me when she was five and I was a baby comma, as I have said comma, because she held me period. She held me because she was in the glass box where all the yellow comma, green comma, blue comma, and pink babies went after they were born period. She had a baby sister who was sick in the NICU and her family was visiting her comma, Natalie was her name period. But Lucy was allowed to wander over to look at the new babies because she was mischievous and her parents were tired of hearing her banter while they were listening to the nurse talk period. A nurse allowed Lucy to hold me because I was being fed when Lucy was in the room period. This is actually the only time that Lucy held me when I was a baby and we did not meet again until we were much older period. We only know this happened because her parents and my father talked for a while when they both traveled simultaneously to the glass box to search for their kids period. They discovered they lived near one another and both had children about the same age comma, Natalie and I period. I did not see Lucy for six years following the day I was born period.
Lucy and I reintroduced ourselves through my bathroom window period. She was sitting in my rose bush just outside period. I was washing my hands and chanting quietly to myself when I happened to glance over my left shoulder out the open window and into the yard period. She looked bedraggled period. Her blonde hair was clinging to her tan shoulders and cascading down around her white tank top in ringlet dread locks period. Her black knees were clutched to her chest and one pink rose was resting perfectly on top of her head comma, the stem sagging from the bush like a sad rainbow period. Her toenails were dirty and jagged period. Her feet were stained with dirt that looked like it had been wet and then dry a few times comma, the path of the droplet cutting a road through the grime and ending between her toes period. Lucy was crouched looking just like this under the rose bush comma, listening to me comma, when I looked over period. I saw her and was silent immediately period. The sound of the water rushing out of the faucet into the white porcelain sink was all we both heard period. I was poised with my hands still under the water comma, my mouth hanging open period. Her brown eyes were piercing and she just stared blank faced and I stared back period. The silence was broken when she said HELLO in a quiet tone and I mouthed a hello back period. I AM LUCY she announced in a dejected quiver and I answered I KNOW period. I of course did not know but I was at the age of six and everything that anyone ever said elicited one response from me comma, I KNOW period. So on this day comma, on the day of meeting Lucy for the second time comma, I said I KNOW and it started our friendship because she had finally met someone who gave the same reply that she did to every question period.
There was a time in eighth grade comma, when Lucy was a senior in high school and thus seemed very cool to boys my age period. I was the one in eighth grade period. You may very well be able to imagine this time period in the life of every boy and everything it brings along with it period. Now add a horrible case of OCD to the mix and you have a kid with some very serious problems and one without the slightest chance of making it in the social empire of junior high period. I was fucked in the head period. This was about the time that most people I had gone to school with for a very long time began to build up enough of the mean hormones to start actually picking on me period. Before eighth grade comma, it was like no one cared that I stroked one side of my head incessantly and stomped my foot three times in quick succession out of pure necessity period. In fact comma, it was like no one even noticed I was there comma, and I liked that much better period. Lucy noticed though comma, and she beat the living crap out of anyone who talked about me or to me in a bad way period. Anyway comma, about that one time period. She came to school because she was picking me up that day period. She drove an old red Honda and blared rock music comma, which was cool period. I would twitch and wait and talk to myself and plead with Ed to stop making me drag this piece of plastic over the same spot on my hand over and over period. This kid named John Baker started to taunt me and comma, in a most embarrassing fashion that was habit for me that week comma, I peed my pants period. Apparently Lucy witnessed most of the beating that Johnny happily bestowed upon me afterwards comma, because she was there in a minute with fists flailing and her scary voice on period. She had a voice she got from her dad when he beat the shit out of her and she used it when she beat the shit out of other people period. And it was really intimidating comma, let me tell you that for sure period. In her growling screeching threatening tone she tore John apart verbally and with her skinny girl arms she knocked out two teeth and gave him a black eye period. Lucy was not my hero for this comma, or any of the times to follow that she beat the hell out of people who were teasing me period. In fact there were many occasions when a witness would have been able to accurately report one slight frail kid rocking and pleading and clapping to a tall blonde girl who was pummeling a much younger male period. They would have been telling the truth if they had noted that the MENTALLY RETARDED LOOKING ONE WAS CRYING AND BEGGING THE GIRL TO STOP BUT THAT BLONDE PYSCHO JUST KEPT HITTING AND KICKING period. This happened quite often and though I was protected comma, I was embarrassed as well period. Lucy protected me from the time she was eleven until the time she was twenty dash – five semicolon; but back to the garden and the time that we met for the second instance period.
Lucy was not wearing a lot of clothing that day period. She had the white tank top on and some ripped up jean shorts period. She was clutching herself in that dejected way and she was whimpering comma, uncharacteristically though I did not know it then period. Fact is comma, Lucy was escaping her dad for about the millionth time and she hopped a few fences and ended up in our yard period. That was the happiest day of my life because it was the day someone played with me for the first time comma, ever. Lucy noted comma, as we played on the back lawn comma, that there were strange things about me period. For instance comma, I have a very revealing and incredibly loud laugh period. I often blame Ed and tell people it is Ed laughing and not me comma, though really I just tend to feel an incredible laughter bubble up over things that I find funny period. WHO IS ED Lucy asked me as we lay on the lawn period.
I told her I KNOW WHO HE IS and then continued to play with the grass that was poking up through my outstretched fingers period.
I KNOW STUPID she persisted comma, BUT I DO NOT KNOW WHO HE IS AND YOU KEEP TALKING ABOUT HIM LIKE HE IS AN ALIEN IN YOUR HEAD OR SOMETHING period.
WELL HE IS NOT AN ALIEN I replied feeling smaller and smaller period. The intense green of the grass was making me slightly dizzy but I was having a different sort of strange feeling aside from that period. For the first time ever comma, and this is what I remember most clearly about that day on the lawn comma, I did not feel Ed punching me in my brain and forcing me to do something random period. I had had a few urges previously to go tap this one dark circle in the wood of the fence three times but at that moment I felt nothing but the colors of the grass comma, the clarity of the sky comma, and the calm feeling of being content period. Contentedness is one thing in life I do not have period. But that moment comma, I felt it for the first time period. I have sought it ever since period.
Lucy had to escape from her father a lot period. She had to GET THE HELL OUTTA THERE BEFORE HE GOT HIS HANDS ON ME ELSE HE WOULD WOOP MY BUTT TILL THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT comma, and that is a quote period. Lucy had a family that seemed very nice except for her father because he seemed very stern about twenty dash - four hours out of every day period. She had a small dark house that was rather dingy and smelled like cats period. The first time I went there comma, I broke into a cold sweat period. Imagine someone with intense OCD and other weird psychotic issues like me comma, who is obsessed with cleanliness and tidiness and fastidiousness comma, going into a house that has not been vacuumed in ten years period. I just about jumped out of my own skin and I actually turned around to leave but Lucy grabbed me and pulled me back period. I could see bright white lights in my peripheral vision and I was shaking period. A ball of cat hair and lint and three hundred fifty thousand two hundred and ten germs was balled up on the hall carpet and we passed it on the way to the room that Lucy slept in period. I was visibly gagging and retching and Ed was upstairs pounding away at the inside of my head screaming for me to get out of there immediately period. But I did not period. I continued walking and just about passed out when Lucy closed the door behind us and turned to face me period. I could not sit anywhere comma, I could not stand either because my head felt so light period. I could not do anything but hyperventilate until Lucy walked up to me and gave me a good slap across the back period. GET OVER IT she said comma, IT IS CLEAN IN THIS ROOM period. As I told you comma, she thought she could fix me period.


It was four in the morning and I was sleeping on my back with every inch of me comma, up to my sternum comma, tucked neatly into the blue blanket with my head in the exact center of the matching blue pillow period. What woke me up was a most frightening and disturbing sound of a pounding on my front door period. When I was awake enough to realize the pounding was immediate and not a dream and I should probably get out of bed comma, I folded my covers back exactly and rose comma, careful not to wrinkle the sheet period. I walked slowly down the hall and listened intently to the savage noise of an open comma, and then closed comma, palm pummeling my door period. Something in my chest cracked open and spilled when I recognized Lucy’s voice over the top of the slamming period. I went quickly to the door and opened it period. Her arm was raised in the air mid swing and it pulled her whole body forward with the momentum of the knock so she stumbled into my entry way period. Immediately a rush of the sweet stench of alcohol came with her period. I was too scared to find words immediately but I reached for her as she stood up straight and brushed her hair out of her eyes period. She shook my hands off and walked into my kitchen period. I shut the door and mentally prepped myself for what was about to happen period. I stood in my boxers with my back to the door facing the kitchen and watched Lucy pull out all my glassware and shatter it on the floor period. My hands hung limply at the end of my arms on both sides of my naked torso period. I did not stop her or react to her when her flaming expression sought me out in the room period. She looked at me for a second and then turned back to her work period. Systematically she pulled each glass comma, each plate comma, and each bowl out of the white cupboards where they were arranged by size and type period. She threw each one over her right shoulder and onto the linoleum floor where it shattered and added to the pile of broken glass and porcelain period. Her hair was wild and streaked with rain period. Her face was streaked as well comma, but with tears and pure anger period. She was wearing a black skirt that was impossibly short and ankle boots that left a little bit of room between her leg and the leather period. I imagined sticking my fingers into that hole and thought the texture would be somewhat moist and warm period. She had a red corduroy jacket on and a small black purse with a long strap slung over her right shoulder period. I watched a chunk of white porcelain skid across the floor from the place of impact to under the fridge period. Lucy was eventually done shattering every thing in that cupboard over the stove and I watched calmly as she moved onto the next cupboard period. She flung the door of it open to find more drinking glasses period. She began to mutter and rage under her breath and then her tone escalated to one of normal volume and then to a scream and her veins began to stand out in her neck period. She turned and threw a glass against the door behind me comma, narrowly missing my shoulder period. I flinched and continued to watch her period. She was talking about Christian period. I sighed internally and grew frustrated period. I allowed her to shatter another cupboard of glasses and then willed myself to take a step towards her period. At that moment I felt a tingle in the bottom of my feet from standing on the cold floor flat dash - footed period. At that moment Lucy began to cry and sank to the floor with her hands holding her face and her legs folding neatly under her period. I went to her period. I had known Lucy for thirteen years at that point and I knew when was a good time to hold her and when was not period. This was a good time comma, five minutes before that was not period. Lucy huddled into my arms as I knelt down amidst the broken dishes and hugged her to me tightly period. I rocked her and stroked her head into perfect little rows of straight perfection period. She sniffled and shook and after a while she snored period. My legs were cramping in the position I was in comma, when I shifted she woke up period. She allowed her head to roll back onto my bicep so I was holding her like a baby comma, as she had done to me period. She looked up at me and I studied the mascara streaks that ran down her face and into the corners of her mouth period. I took in every crease and every eyelash period. I paid homage to each pore and blemish period. I imagined smoothing her eyebrows with my fingertips and tucking her hair behind one of her ears period. Her eyes studied me back and I held her on the kitchen floor and no words were exchanged period. I thought about all the times we had played together as kids period. I remembered running behind her in a cornfield and seeing her white skirt kick up behind her feet period. I remembered thinking I had to follow those slinky movements and I remembered for once that Ed agreed with that notion period. I had been following her at a dead run for my whole life period.

something i wrote

Laws of gravity. I am looking out at downtown through the thick glass of the window in the hotel room. The lights are blurred and twisted with the night sky, making swirls of color that look like distant sparklers - those fiery sticks that I once saw Lucy’s face over as we held them between us on a New Year’s eve. I am wondering how thick the glass is. How far am I going to have to back up in order to gain enough momentum to burst through? Will I have to move the bed? Will I have to move the desk? Will I have any failed attempts? (What comical treachery it would be if I ran all the way across the room, intending to break the glass of the window and fall down eighteen floors to the street below, only to bounce off and land on the soft beige carpet of the hotel room. The hollow thud of my body rebounding from the glass would ring in my ears.) I am fiddling with my hands. It is one of the things that I have never been able to control. One of the many things. It is not because I am nervous. I am not nervous. It is not because I am scared of heights or of death or of loss. I have larger and more important things to fear. I wring my hands and look out of the window because it is something that my mind wants to do, therefore I am forced to do it. These hands are chapped and cracked, bloody circuits running through the surface of the skin – too much hand washing. But would too much soap and water make a man jump out of a hotel window to his death? No. Not even my sickly mind could fathom that insanity. In fact what would make a man jump out of a window intending to die? Drugs? Money? Depression? Obsession? Possibly. My reasons tend to be slightly more complicated however. They all revolve around a loss. A loss of dignity, of love, of patience, of power. Somehow, loss is involved. You might say that I am profoundly affected, rather than sad or upset. This answer seems to be the only one. It is what makes sense, it is what she would have wanted. Lucy. She made me understand what exactly it was that was supposed to happen. This is supposed to happen. I have methodically gone through every motion. I have successfully followed through with each step of this large plan. I feel that for once, I am not submitting to the wants of my mind, I am submitting to what is right and destined for me. I am following the laws of the universe. Of gravity. I am doing right by her and that is all that matters anymore. With these thoughts in my mind, I decide that backing up as far as possible, all the way to the door, moving all obstacles out of the way, and running full speed will surely get me through the window. It will allow me to break through the glass, into the cold night air. I push the nightstand against the wall, allowing a space for the bed to be moved sideways, lengthwise along the wall. I push against the mattress and put my fingers under the cold steel of the bed frame. It moves easily along the carpet. I push the desk and chair to one side. There is my path. It is open and clear and ready. I walk to the door of the hotel room and turn, pressing my back against it. I look down at my body, the last time I will see it in tact. I begin to run. I run as fast as I can at the glass, and feel my arms come up to my face automatically, protecting it. I feel my feet pound the carpet and I see the lights of the city swaying in front of me as I run. Then the glass is against my arms, my stomach, my legs. It is giving way. It is shattering. I can distantly hear the noise, but my ears are filled with a more immediate ringing. I have broken through. I feel for a moment that I am flying. I feel my arms reach out to each side of my floating body. I feel my eyes open. I feel my legs kicking in the air. I am born to the last few moments of my life. I am a new child, at the mercy of those around him. I am helpless and naked and free and so alive for those last few seconds. My infantile body is floating in the womb of the night. They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you know you are about to die. It does. As the floating feeling disappeared so quickly and the falling sensation commenced, it all flashed before me. I saw every second of my life. I saw Lucy’s face before me and I saw every moment we ever experienced together. It was like living all over again. It was like someone giving me one last chance to experience everything. To change anything. To understand it all. There was a peace. It was a transfusion of enlightenment that was injected into me with the laws of gravity. It was the falling that showed me. I understood what Lucy really meant.

I cannot post pictures. i dont know why not. it takes forever. but i guess this is not myspace. writing blog maybe? i dont want to be lame. i dont want to punctuate. i don't want to but i guess sometimes the periods and commas will sort of slip in. and if i say things that you want to respond to, i guess you will because that is how they tell me it works. they also tell me that at a wedding, someone hung up blown up pictures of the love notes that each had written to the other. that sort of sounds like my life.