Trying to make things a little real
This precipitation has been steady for six hours.
Yoga in a room full of windows reflecting white light infinitely was relaxing.
Regeneration? Like when you pull a lizard by the tail and it grows a new one. Am I capable of regenerating?
Oukast says, "I lick you like a lizard when I'm slizard."
Then they proceed to make claims to being the "coolest muther fuckers on the planet."
I haven't heard a good enough argument contesting that not to believe them. All you niggaz in the ATL represent
Postcard magic with red-headed woodpeckers in falling snow.
My whole body is screaming, "this isn't real!!!" Snow is detestable because it fends off any attempts at intimacy when in it's midst. Not that I encourage any intimacy, but at least I can fake it. Not snow.
Layers and layers shroud the pedestrians, and layers and layers disguise the texture of the Earth herself, homogenizing the surface so distinctions are blurred.
"Yeah, you don't need to get to know me," the Oak on the Corner shrugs. "I'm just like that other tree over there."
Like a sea of penguins.
Give me the summer: nudity and no disguises. Color and flesh and patterns.
I'm cooking turkey and rice soup from leftovers, and rasperry tarts. Cooking makes me feel useful. And as I stood chopping vegetables I thought to myself: "I refuse to never get married and have children." Was that a mistake? Am I supposed to be happy with the idea of living alone my entire life before I find a soul-mate and start making babies? I hope not, cause that's a bad idea.
After school activities are canceled.
Thursday is when the kids go to Catholic Religious Instruction for an hour after school. They memorize how to do the hokey-pokey, and today they were supposed to have a dress rehearsal for Christmas Mass: the most important of the two days of the year when they go to church.
"Mommy, what's a rosary?"
"Well, honey... Why don't you tell me? I recall learning about it when I was in Religious Instruction in the seventh grade."
"Oh. Is it the necklace with the cross thingy?"
"Very Good! I seem to recall the words 'hail Mary'...."
Michaela overhears in horror, but can't keep Tupac from running through her head:"Come with me! Hail Mary. Nigga run, quick, see. I wanna la di da."
There's no concept of God as anything more than a party to a contract signed with an institution that begs for money and puts on elaborate ceremonies to cover up for their lacking explanations.
If I had been raised by Catholics I doubt I would like God, either.
"Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back."
