Gripping ceramic handle, or forgoing it completely, instead opting for rounding my left hand around the cup itself so I may more directly feel the warm contents with in. Coffee, black. Bitter notes skate along my tongue constantly questioning, “Do I really like this?”. A 10 fluid ounce customary staple in a house or dorm or apartment or anywhere. Personal or plain. At risk of shattering everyday due to the overflow. The surface is smooth and well wrought. But it can break just as easily. Wondering about who first invented this apparatus that could hold liquid so well. Could make it portable and manageable. What an invention of it’s time. Probably some Neanderthal daydream following the discovery of mud and clay. Could it have been the Native Americans? Or Natives of another land? How they must have discovered how to dry it in the sun. I have broken many mugs. And glasses. I’m 29 years old. It would have been astonishing if I never had.
Mug as face as mugshot. Blinding flash holding my number and information. The smell of vomit and stale beer and paperwork. Freezing cold, my skin prickles and hair stands on end. I am so anxious I’m calm. Glazed over eyes. Righteous in my stance. Not defensive, just standing there. Taking direction like a trick pony as I change my angles. Cold metal bars, dirty concrete floor. Moaning of a hangover come to quick or come too late. It will be printed out on photo paper gloss and uploaded onto the Internet. It will exist forever in time, even after I am dead. A silly misunderstanding or a big thing that got caught like a fish on a pontoon in the deep sea. Heavy hooks piercing weak bait. The end of the food chain. The beginning of it. Coffee gets cold and can no longer keep its heat. Open air open mouth. Steam disappears out and drifts off take it’s heat to do die out in the open air. The mug’s use is temporary. Until the liquid grows cold, until it breaks. Until both. Having to clean up ceramic shards dreaming of gluing them back together.
The designs of this rug under my feet. Ornate, intricate, baroque patterns stitched in ivory with a black background. It adds warmth to this room to my feet perhaps to the coloring in this room. Ivory fringe tickles the sides. My feet rest comfortably, lightly on top of it. It does not fly. It is not magic. Though I’m not sure where it’s from. Fringe only tickles two sides, the shorter sides of the rectangle. I am not sure where it has come from. Possibly from my Nonna’s house before she died. Or after she died. Probably after. There was such a mass cleanout of her house when she was both alive and dead. Many items were salvaged under our room. Under our roof. I feel old, depressed. I never thought time could do this to me. I thought I could be impervious. And maybe it isn’t time. It’s just me and I can’t fix it through sheer will. This rug stretches across about 3 or 4 feet long. I think. Estimating lengths was never my forte. I never worked in construction. There is actually another rug in front of this on. I floormat/doormat which I believe is really a small cutout of carpet that used to be in this room before we got hardwood floors. I think my Nonna was still alive when we did that. But our first dog Coco was not. He had died at least a month or two before. It is smaller than this larger rug. It looks like a good rug to wipe your shoes on. But the dog lays on it mostly. It gives him another surface to rest his laurels. Laurel was the name of a dorm at Ramapo that I never got to stay in. It was the Junior dorm. And it was nice. And I would have loved to stay there if my roommate situation didn’t fall apart sophomore year. But Nonna had just moved in with us and I found myself wanting to live back home. In those two years I dormed, I feel like I missed so much of my family’s life. Especially my brother’s life. There’s a lot that I just wasn’t around for. When I found out about it later it made me sad. Stormy ocean water roll wave. Lost boat at sea. Lantern violently swaying. What to do when you can’t call for help. Bell rings to nowhere. Only God can hear your plea, that is, if you can scream loud enough and the strong gales of wind don’t get caught in your throat.
Flipping colors. Two colors in square patterns rippling across a square pond. Counting sheep, Dumbo dreams. Things like that. Feel and smell the grain of cheap wood. Functional, absolutely. But cheap. There is finish and varnish to maximize appearances. Or it could be cheap paper cardboard. As long as there are enough squares and the colors differ from one to the next. Flat smooth checker pieces with jagged edges. The board could also house chess. All different types of pieces for that one. Communism vs. Monarchy. Butterflies flap and fly away down misty streams of abandoned billboards and advertisements. Flipping channels but can’t. Flipping the English Channel but can only swim it. Can only boat it. Dip my toe in. Row in. And out. That time in childhood when checkers was way more preferable and less complicated than chess. Those years wracking your own brain, my own brain trying to understand that game. Checkers was so much more simpler. Fun, faster. Easier. Now it’s not fun because it’s too quick, it’s too easy. It’s tic-tac-toe, essentially. There is something warm and fuzzy inside though about playing a board game. Usually with my Dad. Time always well spent. Maybe with a little music on. Maybe not. It can get so easy to get distracted. Maybe while eating something, maybe while drinking tea or espresso. It’s a day spent introverted and indoors, which I find is how I prefer to spend my days.
When we were shopping for a new board, in this instance, a chess board. My mom was convinced that she wanted a large, wooden stand-alone table that had a board painted on it. It took weeks, if not months of convincing and painstakingly telling her that that was so unnecessary. Not only was there no room in the house for it, but it wasn’t mobile. We couldn’t just pick up and play where we wanted. I’m so glad she never bought it because it would have been a waste and no one would have been happy. She actually doesn’t play, but my dad and brother do. It’s one of all our favorite things to do I think.
Checkerboard patterns are interesting. They can morph and duplicate. Stretch out forever or shrink down small like in Alice in Wonderland, which I never cared for the Disney cartoon version. I think it scared me too much. I didn’t understand. Not sure if I ever read the book either. It all seemed terrifying. These days I think there’s just better things to read. The acid trip scene in Dumbo is great though. In college (part 1) I would like to get very very stoned and halfway into munchies go to youtube and find that scene and watch it. It was constantly enjoyable and hilarious! I haven’t done that in awhile.
Blinding light makes me shield my eyes. Brighter than Buzz Lightyear’s laser to a 5-year-old toy. With eyes shut and hand raised, I can still see the brightness through the darkness. I know it’s there. I smell the dampness of the cave. And hear the occasional falling pebble, water trickling somewhere. Everything echoed, slightly amplified and reverberant. I reach out and grasp at the walls feeling my way by jutted rock. Eyes still closed, I don’t dare look. Because this diamond is cursed. Feeling my heart like a teenage rebellion threatening to move out of my chest in a violent and dramatic way. I cannot coax it. Cannot pretend this isn’t happening. Indiana Jones would have capture this gemstone with no problem. Not me. I must now find my way back with my life and livelihood intact.
What if marriage is a real life horcrux? We split our souls into an institution and symbols of our love (ring), at our own peril. I guess the counterargument to that would be but that when we die, we die. Though if the love is true, that moment can be torturous for the other party who knew and experienced true love with the deceased. This is garbage and I’ve just been reading too much Harry Potter. Maybe not to much … but too often.
Sparkling, even in small amounts. Dazzling in large. A symbol of status. A symbol man kind and ad agencies have ascribed status to. These things are not intrinsic. Their value is created. I feel bad for those pinned down by its trappings. When there’s enough money involved, I think that happens more often that we realize. Trapped by wealth, spoiled by it. You cannot eat it. You can wear it and sell it and perhaps for a moment it makes you feel good, but like all things that fades.
Diamond records, diamond teeth, diamond rock, diamond ring and jewelry. Diamond needle.
Don’t you wanna hold all your thoughts close to you? Wicker threaded basket, hardened reeds from the water. Baby Moses in a towel floating down the river. Smells like stagnations touched with the perfume of distant-growing flowers. I hear the trickling of water nearby, but cannot see it past the tall reeds and grasses. Cooing of the baby. We are all saved. I stand in the water barefoot and it is up to my ankles. It feels cool, but gets increasingly warm as my body adjusts to the temperature. But this is a cartoon and I cannot see my feet within the water. So my legs just like like two stumps hovering across it. But I am balanced and that’s all that matters. I put a piece of grass in my mouth and taste its earth. It is bitter and unsatisfying. My saliva generates around it, mistaken. I spit it out, regretting it. I open my eyes to witness the clear blue water to be nearly identical with the clear blue sky. I can breathe more deeply, more fresh air when it’s like this. It’s like applause from Nature. It’s applauding itself. She’s applauding her self. I run my hand across the reads and twirl my fingers in the water, crouching down, trying to see a fish. I get goosebumps from the wind in the air. A slight chilly breeze. I will sit in the water and feel my clothes begin to saturate like I am a biscuit dipped in tea for a long time. Soon enough I was prune and start to fall apart. You’ll have to collect my crumbs in the water. This basket holds towels. I look out for snakes and eels, lurking in and around the water. Life was so much more dangerous back then. But no signs, really. Everything was word of mouth or you got lucky. I’m lucky enough to be sitting here now. I will take this basket back to shore, hold it on my head. Feel it’s weight. At first, it will seem like no trouble at all, but soon after I will be desperate to find a resting place. A genius invention to carry thing. These crisp reads bent to for this helpful container. Before mankind grasped plastics and metalwork and went beyond cupping their two hands to gather food and water and belongings. It’s not suitcase, but it’s a start. The salty smell of sand. Temporary castles no one thought to build. Wondering how much of my mind is collective unconscious. A toga wrapped around my body. I am lithe. Thin and beautiful. I am not myself. Not self-conscious. Tying a knot at shoulder-length to tighten my apparel. I greet other women while I go about my work.