Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Fifty Deep, and a New Direction

Dear Vic,
Here we are. We've already burned our 400 calories and have agreed to meet on the page this morning. You've put on your tie and gotten into your yuppie van. Maybe you're tired and speeding on I80. Outside the courtroom, perhaps your client bites his nails while you drink coffee. I've done my makeup and showered my co-workers with a cute sarcasm (when will they learn to stop asking me if I'm voting? I detest November). I wear my $10 mascara here, they're not worthy of my Smashbox lashes. I'm trying to take a turn away from poetry. Thanks for the push.

I've read the letter you wrote to your siblings twice more. Your edges are rough, but in an articulate way. Quentin Tarantino rough. Pulp Fiction. I wish I knew you better. It's nothing glamorous, but I wish you could see me at work. I think that maybe I am like you. Headphones in, smug smile on, only working 60% of the time. Writing. I consider leaving- walking out. I have three exit speeches rehearsed to recite to my co-workers and asshole boss. One such speech involves a story in which I am having an elicit affair with my Chinese case manager. Maybe I even move to Beijing.

Lately writing and running are all that I find satisfaction in. One clears my head and the other clears my arteries. Last month, my doctor told me that my blood pressure is a marvel. I wonder how come my ass still looks enormous in the hallway mirror, then. Another marvel I suppose? I've already given up butter, what more is there to do...? This state kills you slowly. I have seen countless people load up on fried cheese and then scream for hours as Packers throw yet another interception. Bulging stomachs and neck veins- a winning cardiac combination. I've always wanted to move.

Days push along here. I keep my spirits up with spirits and high heels. I might max out a credit card for fun. Soon the snow will be all over me. Snowshoes and hot tea. I'm aiming higher this winter.

Your Distanced Daughter

1 comment:

  1. I am always tired and speeding. I am always late. I am always trying to catch up with someone, something, someplace. Most things perpetually elude me. My writing is rough because I write angry. Even when I write sweetly it is a cover for passive violence. But its OK. I no longer mind being angry any more and I hide it fairly well beneath my smiling eyes.
    Like you, I immerse myself in music from the time I awake until long after I have fallen asleep, often pulling out my headphones in the dark hours of morning... relentlessly seeking the soundtrack to my life. I taught that to you.
    I also taught you the catharsis of exercise, but I am not accepting responsibilty for the appearance of your ass in the mirror. It might just be the mirror... they are deceptive that way. It might just be your dissatisfied, hyper-critical self-image (for which I might be partially to blame), but if it is in fact enormous...
    The state will indeed eventually kill you. But no worries. People like you and me never die by the drop. We go out loud and regretfully, with high 100 proof spirits and fanciful aspirations.
    Before you wish to know me better, perhaps you should share confidences with those that do so you can appreciate the full extent of my toxicity. But then again, that's not really your style and perhaps you already know the pain I'm capable of inflicting on the ones I love.
    You are my distanced daughter... I named you so... do remember this?

    sprawling chasms and gulfs
    yawning vaults of separation
    and me on a pinnacle
    with you on the far side
    out of reach
    beginning your walk-about
    and when the sunset horizon
    swallows you up
    I will catch you
    in my wailing dreams
    rushing with the wind
    as i free fall