Sunday, May 21, 2006

I'm a professional listener.

A nice quiet morning. Woke up next to a good looking man. Stared at his ceiling for a couple of hours. We get up. Get dressed. A kiss and a hug. Part ways. There is nothing not nice about a morning like this.

A nice quiet day too. Go home. Change. Brush my teeth. Cuddle Delores. Nice, nice, nice.

So I get to the coffee shop and surf the web. Doing some research for a matching tattoo for me and my fucking beautiful sister. Minding my own business. Eventually I go outside for a cigarette. Its cold, but kind of a nice sort of cold. I got a hoodie and a light coat, and my favorite flowerbox is open for the sitting. This guy rides up on a shoddy old BMX. He starts talking to me before he is close enough to hear him. Asks for a cigarette. I give him one. Introduces himself, and likewise for me. Shake. Then it begins.

He tells me things. Lots of things. Very quickly. All I did was listen and probably smile. He tells me hes an actor. And a male dancer, well lets just be frank, a stripper. Tells me about his clients. Five-dollar tippers. Ten-dollar tippers. He dances all over town. Clubs, private parties. Its good money for his daughter. One and a half years old. He shows me a wallet photo. Shes pretty, I tell him. He nods, continues. He lives with her mom, but they are not together. A lot of people think that that is strange. But his daughter is going to be a strong independent woman. A good father is good for a daughter. Not that single mothers cant hack it, but he believes in family values. His baby's mama has men over, they give him looks, but it is his home, he pays the bills, so whatever. He doesnt mind though. Shes a good woman. He reads to his daughter, well mostly picture books. Shes only one and a half after all. On and on and on and on . . .

All of this in one cigarette. I hardly said two words. Just smile and nod, look interested. If people are in the right mood, they will tell you anything and everything, especially if they know their encounter with you has a time limit. I live for this. I listen to a lot of people problems; I keep secrets and my word. This is one thing I am very good at. I like being supportive, I pride myself on that. Call me anytime, day or night, crisis or no crisis and I'll not only answer but I might even crawl out of bed and come over to see if you're ok. Sometimes, even if I dont like you very much.

But really, I get a ridiculous amount of strangers, mostly 40+ men, all completely harmless, telling me their life stories. If I want to hear a story, all I have to do is go sit somewhere, it'll find me it seems. Pour your stories into me. I'm a walking archive, I won't forget your life story, and if you are afraid of not having a legacy, I'm your girl. I wish I could get paid for this. I'm a professional listener.

synchronized octopi: feminine and floating

I've had a lot of alone time this week. Graduated. Done. I made a point to take some time off of work, and to avoid doing my hobbies. Ive been looking forward to this lull for three years. Maybe longer. The lull is here my sweet darlings. I have finally obtained it. Now make it go away.

At the beginning of the lull, it was nice. Drink alone all night, sleep alone all day. Waking up at two or three in the afternoon, with my hair sticking to the back of my neck, sprawled across my bed with Delores at my side, watching me wake up. I like to wake up with the sun in my eyes, and with an east facing room, it always is. There is something to be said about those little circles that appear when the sun reflects off your eyelashes and directly into your retinas. Get out of bed. Eat. Read all day. Drink all night. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It's been in my head, that there are a lot of wonderful things that have been waiting for me to think about them. They needed my attention. What it actually comes down to, dear friends and foes, is that all of these wonderful little nuances are things I dont really want to think about and have successfully distracted myself from for anywhere between one and eighteen years. Fuck. Now I am totally cornered with it. With, them, actually. The nuanceful nothings are shaped like octopi and boredom is acting as a tank that follows me, rendering me vulnerable to the hundreds of psychedelic tentacles that are reaching for my attention.

I'm sure with enough free time, or lull as I like to call it, I can train the nuances. Teach them to swim for me, all synchronized, spiraling with their arms loose and graceful. Feminine and floating. Then those tenicles wont grab for me, but they will dance with me. Throw my relatively small figure out of our wandering tank, up in the air, over and over again. Until they eventually throw me so high that falling back into the tank would most certainly mean the end of all of my tangents and at the very last moment of peril, while delighting in my last breath, my very old charming friends the crows will flap and dive, pulling the drenched daughter out of the water, and flying back over to that circle of silent corvids, over the intersection at Third and Franklin.