June272011
On My fifth grade report card, my teacher wrote that I was ‘over-exuberant.’  She said that I didn’t understand traditional boundaries, and that I needed to realize that I “cannot always do what I want, when I want.”  She skimmed over the fact that I had straight As and wrote an entire paragraph which chastised my high energy levels and my constant need for stimulation. 
As I’ve grown older, much of my childhood has started to fade and melt into one blurry and incoherent memory, but I will never forget the day I received that report card.  I did not know the meaning of ‘exuberance’ so I found a dictionary and looked it up.  I was mortified that somebody thought these things of me, and I started to constantly question my behavior and personality, hoping that I was not being too ‘over-exuberant.’ 
These last few weeks before my move to California have inevitably presented me with the opportunity to sort though the artifacts of my childhood.  Just last night, my mother and I were sitting on the living room floor together, scraping together the move important remnants while trying to purge ourselves of the others.  We came across my fifth grade report card.  She didn’t recall that particular document with the clarity that I did, so she reread it and decided that she didn’t like it either.  We ripped it up together and threw it away.
I woke up this morning, my last morning in Massachusetts, not knowing where to begin.  I meandered into the kitchen where my mom was performing her daily ritual of coffee/english muffin/raspberry jam.  I opened up the computer and printed my boarding passes.  We cried.
"I’ve been thinking a lot about that report card, and I feel really bad that I didn’t deal with it better," she said.  "Everybody has always been trying to restrain you."
Well, here I go. 

On My fifth grade report card, my teacher wrote that I was ‘over-exuberant.’  She said that I didn’t understand traditional boundaries, and that I needed to realize that I “cannot always do what I want, when I want.”  She skimmed over the fact that I had straight As and wrote an entire paragraph which chastised my high energy levels and my constant need for stimulation. 

As I’ve grown older, much of my childhood has started to fade and melt into one blurry and incoherent memory, but I will never forget the day I received that report card.  I did not know the meaning of ‘exuberance’ so I found a dictionary and looked it up.  I was mortified that somebody thought these things of me, and I started to constantly question my behavior and personality, hoping that I was not being too ‘over-exuberant.’ 

These last few weeks before my move to California have inevitably presented me with the opportunity to sort though the artifacts of my childhood.  Just last night, my mother and I were sitting on the living room floor together, scraping together the move important remnants while trying to purge ourselves of the others.  We came across my fifth grade report card.  She didn’t recall that particular document with the clarity that I did, so she reread it and decided that she didn’t like it either.  We ripped it up together and threw it away.

I woke up this morning, my last morning in Massachusetts, not knowing where to begin.  I meandered into the kitchen where my mom was performing her daily ritual of coffee/english muffin/raspberry jam.  I opened up the computer and printed my boarding passes.  We cried.

"I’ve been thinking a lot about that report card, and I feel really bad that I didn’t deal with it better," she said.  "Everybody has always been trying to restrain you."

Well, here I go. 

June212011

a vignette

There I sat, naked and cold, waiting for something to happen and wondering what I was waiting for.  Lips painted crimson, I licked them clean without realizing I was doing it.  My demure demeanor trumped the unrestrained woman whom I imagine myself to be when I hear the song “Dirt” by Iggy Pop and the Stooges.  My eyes followed the blurred, edgeless line where corrected vision met nearsightedness.  I questioned which side I preferred at that particular moment and gave up on the thought before I found an answer. 

As I slouched and slid further down the mattress, my breasts settled into the space where arm meets ribcage.  Blankets were methodically layered over my legs by some version of me that I have yet to understand.  Maintaining small habits provided relief when juxtaposed with my impending course.  I was prepared to be unprepared, and my evolution depended on it.  The drone of an empty speaker reaffirmed my thoughts. 

Eyes fought Mind and eventually won.  But before I was able to fully submit to my body’s weighted pleas, I wondered:

Why do I attempt to thwart my sleep?  Surely I’m not staying awake in anticipation of something interesting happening.

Maybe sleep is resisted by those who are happy and pure in their lives.  The novelty of dreams falters in the face of tangible, breathable bliss.

March122011

….Pile of Thoughts….

As I lay I watch the words tumble

Falling into heaps among the other thoughts.

They shine at the crest of their ascent

Yet their glow slowly dims as they fall

Orderly

Into my pile of thoughts. 

Photos courtesy of Mauricio Abascal

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