powah

When I imagine myself in the future, I am always crying. Very thin. Beautifully dressed, but crying. The reason is never clear.

My future body has pencil lines on its edges...curls of eraser dust on every surface. My arms and legs will grow longer. My hair will be magically stylish with blinding sparkles where the light hits...

Maybe I will be crying because I cannot take the memory of what I used to be from his mind. Every time he will hold my perfect body, he will think of how it used to be...how it is now.

Bare

Today is soft.

My clothes seem so carefully wrapped around me. My feet are bare.

My heart is mending.

Somewhere in my remembrance is a desperation...a sharp feeling.

I am letting go. So quietly. So softly. I am floating apart from a lifetime of faces.

This day. This life will be spent alone. No one will dare to speak. I will speak to no one.

Strings.

How many old women were once the prima ballerina for the Ballet Russe?
What do they think of now?
Do they still dream of dancing--even with canes or crutches or the hair of children clutched close?

There is a woman in marketing named Kim. I call to ask her questions very early--before she arrives. She will only return my calls if she is sure I am not here. To actually hear our own voices pour together would give away some secret we are keeping. We do not know the other's face.

Maybe she is the woman I passed on the street this morning. We glanced and frowned and went along with our lives. The Claire de Lune was blaring in my heart.

Good Day

I feel a quiet peace. This is a good day. The voices around me are whispers. My own mind is a whisper. What pale cordial brought me to this state? When did I drink it?

My fingers do their daily things--unscrew a cap, press a button, scratch. They move without my knowing. It is beautiful. It is good.

The September Song plays softly. I feel that my body is clean and empty of demons.

A row of colorful journals slouch on the shelf across the room. My hands will touch each of them today.

I am dizzy. I will dance.

I don't know what I've done.
I don't know what to do.

By the Podium

This morning, the homeless-est homeless man in this area rode past me on his bicycle. He said "hey" and nodded his head.

I said, "mornin."

He comes here every day and plays the same game on the same computer. The game is to plant flowers in rows. Every time I walk by, I wonder if he's hungry.

I have never been hungry. Not really.

Somehow I envy his hungriness, his homelessness, his flower game.

When I was younger, I heard a story of a professor who walked out of his classroom. He never went home. He never went to his office. He left his briefcase by the podium. The story was that he walked to the park a few blocks away and never left it. He was pointed out to me once when I walked past this park.

His face was dirty but shining. He was watching a chess game. Something one of the men said made him laugh. He looked toward the sky.

During the Webinar on Thursday

Something free
Not me
My body is a battlefield.
How close am I to hurting someone? Will I ruin it all and not be able to remember? Will they believe me? Everyday I find someone standing in front of me or sitting next to me, speaking to me. I realize it suddenly. I have not heard a word. I have been elsewhere. I know how close I feel. I know no one would believe me. I would be told I was silly. I would be told to stop it.
"Isabella, what is your weakness?"
I want to hurt everyone. There is no peace here. God doesn't love me anymore. My love won't love me forever. I've decided to accept it.
The number I see on the scale...is it the number that is actually there? I weigh my body every day. It disappoints me every day. I am ugly. I am everything he doesn't want. If he didn't know me, he would say "she'd be pretty if she'd just lose weight." I've heard him say it about girls like me.
This is a new day. I will make a new pact to never speak again. I am in this meeting. I am also in a small room. dim. alone. crying with my whole body. screaming. eyes squeezing, mouth stretching. Will I ever breathe in again? I am also in an attic space. complete dark. hot. soft cushion. I am curled and silent--almost sleeping. small scratching sounds all around me...the smell of hot plywood. All I want to do is sleep. I am tired of this world. When I sleep, some wonderful perception of myself becomes myself. I am thin. I am beautiful. My hair is slick. I am in a blue dress. The wind is blowing. I breathe in. I have horrible adventures. I am free.
These people are laughing now. I am vowing to never laugh again. Why didn't anyone tell me I am so ugly? I gnash my teeth. Is this hell? Maybe the rapture will only take babies. Maybe hell is a world without babies. I will never have my own. I know it. It is how I will be punished for what I've done. He will know that's the reason. He will hate me even more.
What am I worth? Nothing.
What am I good at? Nothing.
What have I done with my 25 years? ruined lives. failed at my work. I have lied. I have disappointed everyone.
All I want is to go to sleep. Please let me go to sleep. I just want to sleep.

Maybe all I want is to speak and be heard.

Everyone speaks past me--around me.

I speak to myself.

How are you, Isabella?
I am broken.
Well. That's a stupid thing to say.
I know.
How did you feel when the student stopped listening to you and began a conversation with a friend.
I felt alone.
Do you often feel alone?
Yes.
When?
I feel most alone when I am looked upon by the world.
What kind of an answer is that?
A small one.
Tell me what you want?
I want you to love me.
Why would I love you?
Because you're the only one who can.
I feel powerful.
I hate you.
I hate you back.
Remember playing baseball in those sand dunes that summer?
Yes, we all got spurs in our feet.
Yes. It didn't work.
Remember eating the shark?
Yes.
Remember the flavor?
Yes. I remember exactly how it tasted. I remember the heat coming off of my body. I remember feeling very clean and very happy.
Is that the way you want to feel?
More than anything. Will you help me?
No.
I wish I could fly.
You're ridiculous. You waste time with this imagination. Why can't you just be in reality and be satisfied.
I don't know how.
Learn.
I don't know how.
Everyone knows there's something not right with you. That's why they talk to you the way they do.
I want to be right. I want to do something well. I want to care about something.
Do you care about me?
No, but I want you to love me.

I am frightened.

Everything will change.

Everything but my fright.

Thoughts are swirling around me. I can't see anything but loneliness and worry. Every glimpse I get of his face, every touch, I can't stop whispering, "I will miss you when you go away."

What is the maximum range? How far away can he go before I die? How far into the sky can he fly before I am pulled up, snapped, and smashed? Can I stand it? Will the two parts of me grow louder and louder? Will I know how to speak to him when he returns? Will I be afraid of him? Will he despise me?

I am simple. I am weak. I am human. I am married to a demigod.

I told a lie last night.

I can't stand this. I am in torment. I can't interact with people without studying them so closely that they are sure to hurt me. I watch their bodies. Hands. Mouths. Eyes. I know what they're thinking.

I hold a little piece of my heart out to every person I speak to. I only want them to be pleased to have spoken to me.

My husband says I'm too open with people. He says that's why people think I'm weird.

I am tearful.

I am only a child.

At least once a month I decide that I will never speak again. To never hear my own voice again would be my greatest accomplishment.

I am re-imagining my life without my voice.
I am silent on my grandfather's home videos. I only point to the flower. I do not say "It's a hibiscus."
I never hold my sister by her shoulders and scream into her.
I never tell my mother that I love her.
I never sit on the front porch and cry out to God.

Everything that is good can be done without words--loving, eating, walking about with no guilt or shame...

Player Piano

If I admire or miss a person, I imagine that I am playing the piano. The person is nearby and is impressed. The person loves me because I am playing the piano so well. I am always wearing a beautiful dress.

It is a daily dream. Different people. Faraway people. People who do not remember me.

Somehow, if they could only hear me play, I would be forgiven for whatever I have done to make them go away.

If I could wear a beautiful dress...

Departmental Meeting

Scanners are moving.
Computers are moving.
Snafu.
Mystified.
Prayer Meeting.
Petting Zoo.

Empty.

"There's nothing threatening controlling me."

--The Shins on Phantom Limb "Nothing At All"

What if...

What if I'm doing so well--singing blue skies--just so failure will hurt more?

How will I pay for my sins? I have a husband. I have a best friend. I have a treasured child in my life. A true brother. A loving father. These five people mean more to me than anything. Will my sins hurt them? Is that how it works?

Crazy Roy says some people lose a child because of their sins or get sick. He says that we should all be glad that we have our own cross and not someone else's.

I wish I knew what to expect.

But that would be cheating. I would get better health insurance. I wouldn't have kids if they were going to die.

The sins of the fathers.

Does it work that way with mothers, too? Will I pay for my grandmother's sins? Will I know? Will my child pay for the destruction my mother has caused?

I can see it in my mind. She is holding the child. She is smiling, almost crying. She is pleased. Finally, I have done something worthwhile. I have birthed a perfect curve of flesh to lie on a cold stone and be sacrificed for her lies.

There will be no one to pay for my sins. I will do it myself.

Difference

When was I last in the moment? When has my mind been on what I have in my hands?

Which of my lives is real?

I know the difference. The one I imagine is very quiet--without acquaintances. I am thin.

This morning, I remembered my father waking me up to go walk with him on the beach. I was the only one he woke. I was the only one he cared about. I remembered the conversations we would have about the ocean and the stars and the tides.

For a part of a second, the real memory flashed on my mind. I had forgotten the truth. I went with him because I was a light sleeper. He would try to sneak out, but I would wake up and follow him. He never said a word on the beach. Not a word. He spent the mornings looking for shells my mother would like. She hated shells. She threw them all away.

How many of my other memories have been twisted around?

I don't care.

Left out.

News Flash:

In my brother's thesis acknowledgments, everyone in our family was named. Everyone but me.

He meant for it to hurt me, and it has. I can't stop crying. I want to stop because he meant for me to cry.

But I can't.

What happened? What's wrong with me? I don't understand.

Signals

I cannot describe anything today. I am bursting. I'm over-interpreting everything. I heard Sue say that she only holds doors for people to see if they say "Thank you" or not. I searched my archives for any small memory of her holding the door for me. I don't know if I said anything or not.

My mind is racing. I've had three disconcerting interactions with very important people already this morning. I can't calm down. I'm watching their eyes, their mouths. I'm looking for any signal that I've done something wrong.

I can't sit still. I can't stop thinking. Someone, somewhere is very upset with me, and I can't figure out who it is.

Why do I do this? Just say you don't like me. I'm tired of guessing. I feel like my entire body is a tapping foot.

Yesterday's Staff Meeting

Circulating stacks update. We won't call it "weeding" anymore. Must remember. I have lost myself. These voices hurt me. I have so much to do. I will get it done. I have fear. I fear disappointing others. I fear the thoughts of others. Do their thoughts touch? I convince myself that I know what they're thinking. Cynthia thinks I am a waste of time. Debra thinks I don't look very smart. Lisa can't believe all the stuff I don't know. Jennifer knows I am useless to her and therefore useless to the world. Rebecca is afraid of me. She doesn't understand that I like her. Charles is unconcerned with my existence. David knows I am an idiot. He knows I don't like to be made fun of. Fred pretends. Debbie knows I am lazy. She envies my laziness, and it makes her angry. Savitiri doesn't trust me. Peggy from ILL doesn't like for me to look at her. Virginia sees that I take many things for granted. Jocelyn knows, in spite of her urging, that I will never get very far in life. JoEllen is afraid that my strange religion will jump on her and keep her from saying the "F" word. I want her to like me so much. She cannot. It is too much for any person. Lori knows that i know nothing, that I understand nothing. She knows I'm a fake. She would never want me to get too close. Kendria thinks I am weak. I have born no child. Bridget sees that religion was wrapped around me. I did not choose it for myself. Janet doesn't like my voice. Steve thinks my hair is connected to God. He doesn't like to make eye contact. He thinks I can see that he hates God. Peggy Sue wants me to stay away. Her sandwich is none of my business. Greg can't wait for me to leave. Linda thinks I talk about myself too much. Sue thinks I'm ugly. She hates my clothes. Karen thinks I know her secret. Lilliean wouldn't mind if I died. Marvin feels sorry for me. Lili thinks I'm an entirely different person. Sonya suspects I will never amount to anything. Peggy Lee trusts me but dislikes me. Katie knows I am beneath her. She thinks I should have nothing nice. She thinks I should be without happiness. Dyana hates me. I have not heard a word of this meeting. July. In July, my life will be better but only because more of it will be behind me. I have so much to do. Will I ever be done? Is that what life is? A huge string of deadlines. Do they speak to each other of these thoughts they have about me? Do they nod to each other when I pass by? When will I feel good? When will this be over? No prayer. I guess we're done.

The first true thing

I used to write stories about very fat women falling down stairs. It was all I could bring myself to write about.

Once, I left my journal in my room while I was at school. My mother read it. She found a single sentence I had written that mentioned pants in a favorable tone. She demanded an explanation. (Pants were a no-no, you see.) She was shaking the journal, waving it about, crying about my obvious moral decay. I told her it was just a sentence.

She made me erase it from my journal.

It wasn't until after I ran away from home that I could write what I wanted. Every story was about my mom--for years. The first true thing I ever wrote was a letter that my professor told me to write to the person I hated most.

This letter has disappeared. I imagine that some facet of my mind that still fears her wakens every night to grope about under the bed and fiddle through my nightstand drawers for anything she would disapprove of. I hope it never finds the bikini in the box in my closet. I hope it never finds my heart.