WA 11, Draft 2
Thick air settles upon me like a blanket. I roll over once, but my hip juts against a rock and a tingling sensation darts down my leg. The numbness makes me giggle for a moment, and then I realize I should get up. My legs fight moving as I try to connect my thoughts with my body. They are angry with me, the no longer wish to do the bidding of this earth. I no longer feel the incessant turning of my stomache, it is replaced now by a bloated drum, hollowed out of what used to be the curve of a young girls body. Its seems like it takes too much effort to move this foreign being through the tangible humidity. Heat presses down. My eyes lose focus; black fuzz closes in around the frame. I am still. Somehow, my hand comes to rest on top of my head. It sends pressure to my temples, but at least offers some shade. I try to remember my body. One foot. The other. Right. Left. Rhythm. Movement. The heat makes me think of harvest summer nights; the hollow beat of the tindu drum pulsating through me. The purple of the sky, the color of emptiness, shadows refracting from all angles of the periphery. Spinning. Falling. Moving, dancing. Feeling. Now all I feel is the rush of heat flowing from the ground to my skin, the heat of the sun baring down, blistering my back. My scalp wishes to peel back. On the horizon, I can see water. I can see the undulating movement of bodies. There, the drum comes. It throbs in my temples. The heat scalds my feet. The sun reflects against my bare head. The water pot is gone. Cracked. Next to me? If only it had been filled, perhaps cool water could have splashed upon my face. Nay, it no longer matters. My body burns as the fire of those nights. If only some shade could cover my back, the soles of my feet thrum with pain. The flames rise high; the purple of emptiness seeks to be let in. I do not fight it.
Coming across a leather sandal I hadn't seen in ages, I tripped and swayed, and finally pulled it over my heel. "Oh fuck." my nose inadvertently crinkled and I realized I was unconsciously biting my lip as my toes tingled with the numbness of being cramped inside a shoe that I had long since outgrown. But since when had that happened? The rate of change upon my body completely disturbs me. Its seems like I can grow inches over night. Whatever. I dig through the bin of shoes I never wear, finally finding the other sandal, of course, lying on the bottom-- because where else would it be?, and I push in into the side of the overflowing garbage bag destined for charity. I feel pretty productive, looking around at my clean, cleared out and vacuumed room, and as I lug down the bag of old clothes, I think, this is pretty good, maybe those shoes will even go to some starving kid in Africa.
WA 11, Draft 1
thick air settles upon me like a blanket. i roll over once, but my hip juts against a rock and a tingling sensation darts down my leg. the numbness makes me giggle for a moment, and then i realise i should get up. my legs fight moving as i try to connect my thoughts with my body. they are angry at me, the no longer wish to do the bidding of this earth. i no longer feel the incessant turning of my stomache, it is replaced now by a bloated drum, hollowed out of what used to be the curve of a young girls body. its seems like it takes too much effort to move this foriegn being through the tangible humidity. heat presses down. my eyes lose focus, black fuzz closes in around the frame. I am still. somehow, my hand comes to rest on top of my head. it sends pressure to my temples, but at least offers some shade. i try to remember my body. one foot. the other. right. left. rythmn. movement. the heat makes me think of harvest summer nights, the hollow beat of the tindu drum pulsating through me. the purple of the sky, the color of emptiness, shadows refracting from all angles of the periphery. spinning. falling. moving, dancing. feeling. now all i feel is the rush of heat flowing from the groud to my skin, the heat of the sun baring down, blistering my back. my scalp wishes to peel back. on the horizon, i can see water. i can see the indulating movement of bodies. there, the drum comes. it throbs in my temples. the heat scalds my feet. the sun reflects against my bare head. the water pot is gone. cracked. next to me? if only it had been filled, perhaps cool water could have splashed upon my face. nay, it no longer matters. the flames rise high, the purple of emptiness seeks to be let in. i do not fight. my body burns as the fire of those nights. if only some shade could cover my back, the soles of my feet thrum with pain. the flames rise high, the purple of emptiness seeks to be let in. i do not fight it.
coming across a leather sandal i hadn't seen in ages, i tripped and swayed, and finally pulled it over my heel. "oh fuck." my nose inadvertantly crinkled and i realised i was unconsciously biting my lip as my toes tingled with the numbness of being cramped inside a shoe that i had long since outgrown. but since when had that happened? the rate of change upon my body completely disturbds me. its seems like i can grow inches over night. whatever. i dig through the bin of shoes i never wear, finally finding the other sandal, of course, lying on the bottom-- because where else would it be?, and i push in into the side of the overflowing garbage bag destined for charity. i feel pretty productive, looking around at my clean, cleared out and vaccuumed room, and as i lug down the bag of old clothes, i think, this is pretty good, maybe those shoes will even go to some starving kid in africa.
WA 10, Draft 3
Its four clock.
There is a melancholy sadness and indecision in the air. Maybe it's just me.
Everyone else is walking with friends, talking, jumping. It almost seems like I am watching a movie in slow motion, the sound very fuzzy. I saunter blearily, breathing in the thick new spring air. I can hear the occasional shriek now and then, and the low bass of some passing car. As i have the tendency to do, the car door opens, closes and I am in before i realise what i am doing. I am on auto-pilot. Another slam and the start of an engine. Clicking of an ipod plays out through the feed to the speakers, and we are off. It feels like the branches should be covered in leaves by now, but trees that blurrily pass seem to lack the usual amount of foliage. I look it my left, and he flashes a smile. He can smile like no one else I know. It is not an immediate one. It begins at his eyes and seeps into his cheeks until his entire face is squinched and gloriously, strangely, if not weirdly happy looking. My shoulders drop, somehow that smile was the oil my joints needed. I can feel the humming bass bounce off of my bones. Quartertones move up through my ankles and the force of the lone violin grabs my minds and seems to pull, as if my entire spirit could float out of my body like a magician’s scarf. My feet remain on the floor of the car, but it seems like the rest of me has vaporized. Air flows in through the cracked window and lei flaps wildly in every direction, hanging from the duck taped rear view mirror. Tangible excitment and serenity. I pull the sun flap down to shield my eyes as the car swings a turn…a little too fast. We both know it. I raise my eyebrows as he looks at me deviously. I lean back until I feel the headrest push my ponytail against the back of my head, and let the sun drench my hands on my lap. Looking into the black of my eyelids,
I don’t think or feel. I am suddenly aware over my fingernails... Of the green tint and yellow blotches passing through my view...of the fact that there really is no such thing as a mini carrot. They cut big carrots into pieces. Imagine that. A swift turn, the feeling that someone is glancing at me, and an emergency brake later, I am already out of the passenger seat and checking the mail.
WA 10, Draft 2
Its four clock and there is a melancholy sadness and indecision in the air. Everyone else is walking with friends, talking, jumping. It almost seems like I am watching a movie in slow motion, the sound very fuzzy. I saunter blearily, breathing in the thick new spring air. I can hear the occasional shriek now and then, and the low bass of some passing car. As i have the tendency to do, the car door opens, closes and I am in before i realise what i am doing. I am on auto-pilot. Another slam and the start of an engine. Clicking of an ipod plays out through the feed to the speakers, and we are off. It feels like the branches should be covered in leaves by now, but trees that blurrily pass seem to lack the usual amount of foliage. I look it my left, and he flashes a smile. He can smile like no one else I know. It is not an immediate one. It begins at his eyes and seeps into his cheeks until his entire face is squinched and gloriously, strangely, if not weirdly happy looking. My shoulders drop, somehow that smile was the oil my joints needed. I can feel the humming bass bounce off of my bones. Quartertones move up through my ankles and the force of the lone violin grabs my minds and seems to pull, as if my entire spirit could float out of my body like a magician’s scarf. My feet remain on the floor of the car, but it seems like the rest of me has vaporized. Air flows in through the cracked window and lei flaps wildly in every direction, hanging from the duck taped rear view mirror. Tangible excitment and serenity. I pull the sun flap down to shield my eyes as the car swings a turn…a little too fast. We both know it. I raise my eyebrows as he looks at me deviously. I lean back until I feel the headrest push my ponytail against the back of my head, and let the sun drench my hands on my lap. Looking into the black of my eyelids, I don’t think or feel. I am suddenly aware over my fingernails... Of the green tint and yellow blotches passing through my view...of the fact that there really is no such thing as a mini carrot. They cut big carrots into pieces. Imagine that. A swift turn, the feeling that someone is glancing at me, and an emergency brake later, I am already out of the passenger seat and checking the mail.
WA 10, Draft 1
Its four clock and there is a melancholy sadness and indecision in the air. Everyone else is walking with friends, talking, jumping. It almost seems like I am watching a movie in slow motion, the sound very fuzzy. I can hear the occasional shriek now and then, and the low bass of a passing car. The car door opens, closes and I am in. Another slam and the start of an engine. Clicking of an ipod plays out through the feed to the speakers, and we are off. It feels like the branches should be covered in leaves by now, but trees that blurrily pass seem to lack the usual amount of foliage. I look it my left, and he flashes a smile. He can smile like no one else I know. It is not an immediate one. It begins at his eyes and seeps into his cheeks until his entire face is squinched and gloriously, strangely, happy looking. My shoulders drop, somehow that smile was the oil my joints needed. I can feel the humming bass in my heels. Quartertones move up through my ankles and the force of the lone violin grabs my minds and seems to pull, as if my entire spirit could float out of my body like a magician’s scarf. My feet remain on the floor of the car, but it seems like the rest of me has vaporized. Air flows in through the cracked window and lei flaps wildly in every direction, hanging from the duck taped rear view mirror. I pull the sun flap down to shield my eyes as the car swings a turn…a little too fast. We both know it. I raise my eyebrows as he looks at me deviously. I lean back until I feel the headrest push my ponytail against the back of my head, and let the sun drench my hands on my lap. Looking into the black of my eyelids, I don’t think, feel. I am suddenly aware over my fingernails. Of the green tint and yellow blotches passing through my view. A swift turn, the feeling that someone is glancing at me, and an emergency brake later, I am already out of the passenger seat and checking the mail.
WA 9, Draft 3
wish I could be one of those people who wakes up and is immediately flooded with the inclination that life is a wonderful thing. Maybe i would even sit up in bed, do one of those cliché yawns, hands reaching up over my shoulders, fingers outstretched. Unfortunately, my usual waking routine could be considered about as graceful as trying to rip the leg off of a chicken that isn’t quite dead yet. Or maybe a more accurate comparison would be that I am said dying chicken trying to hold onto its severed leg, desperately trying to cling to my last remnant of untainted thought- my sleep. I don’t understand how I know waking is coming and yet it still hits me like a bus every goddamned morning. It’s like my life is moving in slow motion—one of those horrid movies where you know what’s going to happen within the first five minutes, and you spend the rest of the film trying uselessly to warn the protagonist of the plight that you know is waiting for him.
…and I don’t think it was always like this. I used to actually find joy in things. Is it natural to spend so much time thinking over days in memoriam? Is it normal to mourn what has gone by? I mean, quite honestly, what really documents that we have ever existed, if not? And really, does change ever actually occur--because it certainly feels like my days are pretty comparable to the same reruns of Rugrats and Ren & Stimpy that my little brother watches on cartoon network repeatedly. I don’t see how people become so settled in their routines—was I really put here to wake up late at exactly 6:57, roll out of bed, hunker down to work, and repeat? I suppose for some, it is nice to think but nothing but the next moment, to live for an exactly penciled in routine. I suppose maybe that’s why I make myself miserable. I suppose that’s why I just can’t seem to roll my butt out of bed at the right time every morning. I suppose that is why i have sucked away whatever energy is left from my body by the end of the day. I suppose that is why I have time to suppose all of these things. But really, in that case—does it make a difference if I stop picking my cuticles or look more graceful when I wake up? I would like to think that I spend more time living life than thinking about it, but I suppose I have proved myself wrong in any case. My simple question is—is the chicken’s struggle to keep its leg the reason for its own death?
WA 9, Draft 2
I wish I could be one of those people who wakes up and is immediately flooded with the inclination that life is a wonderful thing. Maybe i would even sit up in bed, do one of those cliché yawns, hands reaching up over my shoulders, fingers outstretched. Unfortunately, my usual waking routine could be considered about as graceful as trying to rip the leg off of a chicken that isn’t quite dead yet. Or maybe a more accurate comparison would be that I am said dying chicken trying to hold onto its severed leg, desperately trying to cling to my last remnant of untainted thought- my sleep. I don’t understand how I know waking is coming and yet it still hits me like a bus every goddamned morning. It’s like my life is moving in slow motion—one of those horrid movies where you know what’s going to happen within the first five minutes, and you spend the rest of the film trying uselessly to warn the protagonist of the plight that you know is waiting for him.
…and I don’t think it was always like this. I used to actually find joy in things. Is it natural to spend so much time thinking over days in memoriam? Is it normal to mourn what has gone by? I mean, quite honestly, what really documents that we have ever existed, if not? And really, does change ever actually occur--because it certainly feels like my days are pretty comparable to the same reruns of Rugrats and Ren & Stimpy that my little brother watches on cartoon network repeatedly. I don’t see how people become so settled in their routines—was I really put here to wake up late at exactly 6:57, roll out of bed, hunker down to work, and repeat? I suppose for some, it is nice to think but nothing but the next moment, to live for an exactly penciled in routine. I suppose maybe that’s why I make myself miserable. I suppose that’s why I just can’t seem to roll my butt out of bed at the right time every morning. I suppose that is why i have sucked away whatever energy is left from my body by the end of the day. I suppose that is why I have time to suppose all of these things. But really, in that case—does it make a difference if I stop picking my cuticles or look more graceful when I wake up? I would like to think that I spend more time living life than thinking about it, but I suppose I have proved myself wrong in any case. My simple question is—is the chicken’s struggle to keep its leg the reason for its own death?
