Clocks

"Don't think about that guy!" 

You shouted to me over your shoulder as you ran toward the bus stop, your bright red sweater flashing as you disappeared into the crowd.

I must have shouted something back at you although I can't remember what it was.  Knowing me, it was probably a very weary but enthusiastic "OK!"  The enthusiasm was for you - my best effort to appease optimists - but the weariness was for me and the inevitable catch-22 of bullshit infatuations: to get over someone, you find someone else.  Don't think about that guy by thinking about another guy. 

Not that I was looking for you.  I always felt this strange ticking sensation deep within me whenever I'd run into you on campus.  Like a tiny grandfather clock was sitting inside my chest, and whenever I'd see you, it would strike midnight.  I still walk those same pathways where I used to glimpse you, and sometimes I expect to just see you striding toward me, headphones around your neck, a book in your face.  Even though I know it's impossible, I think that part of me secretly hopes that I will see you walking, completely unaware that you're about to bump into me like you did that afternoon you told me not to think about "that guy."  I guess it's for the better...because we all know what happens when twelve am rolls around.  The little bird jumps out and yells "Cuckoo!"

I have been forced to live a stationary life since I was born, and the frustration of it all has finally polluted me.  I think I've made up for the sedentary lifestyle that has throttled me throughout these years by finding romance in individuals who won't stay still.  Maybe it's from the hope they can make me free like them, and I can fly away from this self-defeating cage of unattainable dreams.  I'm always ready to leave, always ready to go somewhere, but the clock never strikes midnight when I'm alone.

"Don't think about that guy!" you shouted to me. 

I never would have thought that you would later become "that guy."  The guy that I would have to let go of, the guy I couldn't hold on to forever.

You're always ready to leave, always ready to go somewhere.

And sometimes, when I think about all of the memories we've made together, I still feel a pressing urgency to go chase you.  But I know I never will.  I found you without looking for you, and if I ever do find you again I don't want to hear the ticking of any clock. 

Most of our love was clocks.




7.29.07

Goldfish

Keeping people at a distance is an art.  One that takes at least twenty years of practice.  I know this because I am 20. And I have mastered this art.  That isn't pride in my words.  It's loneliness.

Chances are, if I ever said I'd love you forever, it all faded in the end.  The love didn't melt away, but I did.  The duration of the love didn't matter anyway - If I loved you for only a second, I'm sure I chased you away.

I thought about this as I sipped cheap coffee that tasted like gasoline.  It was seven in the morning and I was in the main indoor foodcourt of my giant university.  A place that is always crowded and sweaty with people every hour of the day, every day of the week.  But not this day. It was summertime and school wasn't in session.  Nobody was there.  Except me.  I put my bag down on a small round table, and rested on a wooden bench against the wall.  The lighted restaurant signs glowed faintly. I looked at all the empty tables and chairs. I was alone.  And then a realization struck me: If there were a million people in that room, I'd feel exactly the same.

You must have seen me running.  I'm always running.  Not away from something, but to something.  I just don't know what it is yet.  Maybe you tried to run after me.  I never forget the people that do.  They're always beautiful.  I'm sorry I didn't stop for you.  

I don't really know who I am these days.  There are few things I know to be true about myself.  And most of them aren't very profound -

I like the rain.  I think miracles happen when it rains.  I like moving down a man's body and kissing the trail of hair that starts from under his belly button and leads to you know where.  I like feeling his eyes watching me as I do this.

I love anticipation.

I eat carne asada on my french fries and drink my milk through a straw.  It's because I like blowing bubbles until the glass overflows with white foam.  It makes me smile.  Like a child.

I laugh when I'm nervous.  I've spent most of my life laughing.

I'll always be that awkward girl in the corner who has a secret that nobody wants to ask about. The one who would steal your boyfriend if she thought her cleavage was impressive enough.  That's me.  And then I'll tell you I'm not superficial.  Everyone says that.

I'm probably not your ideal girlfriend.  I'm that beta that stares at the side of its bowl and fights its own reflection.  That's why I keep running.  I can barely take care of myself so how could I take care of you?

When I was a little kid I drowned my goldfish.
Yeah, I don't get how it happened either.

So much of everything is uncertainty. Maybe all I want is not somebody who will chase me or stop me from running.  Maybe what I want is someone to run with me.  That's really what love is.  It's not about your sexy sports car or your celebrity status.  It's about your courage.  And a comfortable pair of running shoes.

If you're brave enough, don't ask me to slow down.  Just find me and we'll run and run and run.  To the edge of the earth.  Or something incredibly corny like that.  There is no guarantee that you'll ever catch me because I may never find what I'm running to.  However, I'll leave you with this little window to my heart:

Meet me under the city lights.  I like running at night.


8.16.06

Plastic

Dear Rachel,

I know why you are unhappy:

     you will be fake forever.

you can dye your hair lime green, hot pink, and electric yellow
and people will ask your sister where she bought her shoes.

you can slosh down your dinner with vodka and clozapine
and your roomate will ask if you want more pot roast.

you can fuck the mailman
and your dad will ask if his Time magazine has arrived yet.

you can graffiti grandma's house
and she will ask when you learned how to paint like monet.

so just sit there.
let the awful times roll.
they come in pretty colors.

the plastic will melt
once you forgive yourself
for being just like everyone else.

so keep singing those sad songs about what's his name
wondering if he still touches himself when he looks at your picture.

you're naked in it
and his friends probably ask if it's art.


7.14.06