Fall Like a Tree
Fall Like a Tree
As sure as it rains all day, the clouds will blow away, and the sun will shine. I'll get over my attack of whatever it was & — feel fine? Or fall like a mighty Douglas fir. I don't feel fine, but today my shoulder pain is worse than my neck-stifle, so I don't feel quite so cancerous, so terminal.
And the sun shines. The birdies sing: a little poo-wit hops around the bush in my front window. Those small finchy birds are so sweet—I've liked them excessively ever since I was a(n excessive) little girl. Bird—is the thing with feathers. I wouldn't be surprised if the swallows haven't arrived. Or have arrived. If so, they will be out reaping the air in their tuxedos. Silly birds.
The arm hurts into my back & up into my neck. I don't think this is right. I need some magic. Some healer's touch. And, alas, I don't even have anyone to talk to. JHY or Fritz, I guess. Jana & Liz are hopeless. Anne W. is okay but she has a broken toe and her old friend just died of lymphoma.
I think my original plan was best, but I've gotten into Dave's story & though it's probably unfinishable, I hate to toss away the good parts. –But then you always have to do that. Yes, that original plan was best. Maybe I'll find out Monday.
BM Starbucks 4/11/01
Downpour
Just as I leave the library the rain comes pouring down. So instead of going to the BM Starbs to see Lee, I go to the Broadway Starbs & see Roger Lee (from my old Apt. 7). Cozy under a sun-bright light as the rain keeps falling until the intersection floods. All the cars have their headlights on & there is that particular under-water silvered-mirror light. Then the spark.
Outside under the awning the Hungry Man waits. Let him wait.
Stories about weekend weirdness—full moon, you know. Fights. A high level of drunken truculence. I'd like to face adversity with courage, if I have to face adversity. But I'd rather not—since I think I can't. And I'd hate to see even in my mind's eye the spectacle of me craven & crying.
Craven & crying. You know me.
I'm trying to outwait the storm, but truly it doesn't seem to be blowing through. I went to do my shopping at Cost + & found they don't sell baby clothes (I'd pictured a Tibetan pajama). But I got tea for me & two little boxes for the niecelets.
I don't want to write that novel because I don't think I can. O death. I mean that's what the story finally says. And such a lot of work. But I'm saying that only because nobody's making me happy & something is making me unhappy. It don't add up.
Broadway Starbs 4/12/01
What's the Opposite of a Bisexual Male?
Asexual me! A bi-guy comes on to everybody—or anybody at least potentially. And I don't come on to anybody. Except to gawk.
All right, I come on to every cat I meet. And sometimes I preen. With the gayboys. The leatherjacket kind. But shucks I don't mean nothin by it.
—And when I see a girl go by, sauntering or striding, plump rumped in tight blue jeans, I sigh. For such a one was I.
Lee comes over with a big silver bag of coffee under his arm. He tells me it's called a "bullet." A 5-pound bullet. I ask why, he shrugs. I ask why the hair-do of prole-males is called a "mullet." He says he calls it STLB. "Huh?" I say. "Short top, long back." Dykes like it too.
Ha ha, mine's long top short back & I think I'm going cat hunting. Plenty of time—it stays light until after 8.
BM Starbs 4/13/01
Fuzzy Air
When the western air is fuzzy & sort of ice floe colored, then we know it's going to rain. Probably before tomorrow. But tonight I will walk out in the light of the evening & pet more cats.
I think the swallows are back. Or else the little finches peep just like them—and they are all out there peeping & hopping & shakin they wings. I suspect they are making—with much ado—and why not—more birdies. Yes, fresh birdies for next year. Easter!
It's still cold.
Lee stops by on his way to have a smoke & tell me that he used to wear a mullet back in '83. And leather pants too. I demand a photo of this.
I offer him the chance to paint "The Lost Norwegians," but he's not enthused....of course I should do it myself. I'd put Viking helmets on the guys. Or maybe horns on the baseball hat? And spears?
I'll ask Lee to coach me.
I need some typing, or re-typing, done since I'm working on "Dave" & don't want to type the rest until I finish—another week?—I mean the section. So, I'll pull something. (If only my hair.)
Oooh, I'll get organized.
BM Starbucks 4/14/01
As sure as it rains all day, the clouds will blow away, and the sun will shine. I'll get over my attack of whatever it was & — feel fine? Or fall like a mighty Douglas fir. I don't feel fine, but today my shoulder pain is worse than my neck-stifle, so I don't feel quite so cancerous, so terminal.
And the sun shines. The birdies sing: a little poo-wit hops around the bush in my front window. Those small finchy birds are so sweet—I've liked them excessively ever since I was a(n excessive) little girl. Bird—is the thing with feathers. I wouldn't be surprised if the swallows haven't arrived. Or have arrived. If so, they will be out reaping the air in their tuxedos. Silly birds.
The arm hurts into my back & up into my neck. I don't think this is right. I need some magic. Some healer's touch. And, alas, I don't even have anyone to talk to. JHY or Fritz, I guess. Jana & Liz are hopeless. Anne W. is okay but she has a broken toe and her old friend just died of lymphoma.
I think my original plan was best, but I've gotten into Dave's story & though it's probably unfinishable, I hate to toss away the good parts. –But then you always have to do that. Yes, that original plan was best. Maybe I'll find out Monday.
BM Starbucks 4/11/01
Downpour
Just as I leave the library the rain comes pouring down. So instead of going to the BM Starbs to see Lee, I go to the Broadway Starbs & see Roger Lee (from my old Apt. 7). Cozy under a sun-bright light as the rain keeps falling until the intersection floods. All the cars have their headlights on & there is that particular under-water silvered-mirror light. Then the spark.
Outside under the awning the Hungry Man waits. Let him wait.
Stories about weekend weirdness—full moon, you know. Fights. A high level of drunken truculence. I'd like to face adversity with courage, if I have to face adversity. But I'd rather not—since I think I can't. And I'd hate to see even in my mind's eye the spectacle of me craven & crying.
Craven & crying. You know me.
I'm trying to outwait the storm, but truly it doesn't seem to be blowing through. I went to do my shopping at Cost + & found they don't sell baby clothes (I'd pictured a Tibetan pajama). But I got tea for me & two little boxes for the niecelets.
I don't want to write that novel because I don't think I can. O death. I mean that's what the story finally says. And such a lot of work. But I'm saying that only because nobody's making me happy & something is making me unhappy. It don't add up.
Broadway Starbs 4/12/01
What's the Opposite of a Bisexual Male?
Asexual me! A bi-guy comes on to everybody—or anybody at least potentially. And I don't come on to anybody. Except to gawk.
All right, I come on to every cat I meet. And sometimes I preen. With the gayboys. The leatherjacket kind. But shucks I don't mean nothin by it.
—And when I see a girl go by, sauntering or striding, plump rumped in tight blue jeans, I sigh. For such a one was I.
Lee comes over with a big silver bag of coffee under his arm. He tells me it's called a "bullet." A 5-pound bullet. I ask why, he shrugs. I ask why the hair-do of prole-males is called a "mullet." He says he calls it STLB. "Huh?" I say. "Short top, long back." Dykes like it too.
Ha ha, mine's long top short back & I think I'm going cat hunting. Plenty of time—it stays light until after 8.
BM Starbs 4/13/01
Fuzzy Air
When the western air is fuzzy & sort of ice floe colored, then we know it's going to rain. Probably before tomorrow. But tonight I will walk out in the light of the evening & pet more cats.
I think the swallows are back. Or else the little finches peep just like them—and they are all out there peeping & hopping & shakin they wings. I suspect they are making—with much ado—and why not—more birdies. Yes, fresh birdies for next year. Easter!
It's still cold.
Lee stops by on his way to have a smoke & tell me that he used to wear a mullet back in '83. And leather pants too. I demand a photo of this.
I offer him the chance to paint "The Lost Norwegians," but he's not enthused....of course I should do it myself. I'd put Viking helmets on the guys. Or maybe horns on the baseball hat? And spears?
I'll ask Lee to coach me.
I need some typing, or re-typing, done since I'm working on "Dave" & don't want to type the rest until I finish—another week?—I mean the section. So, I'll pull something. (If only my hair.)
Oooh, I'll get organized.
BM Starbucks 4/14/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:03 PM
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