My “can’t really care” is also not the “How many fucks I’m not going to give” meme that makes the social media rounds. I’m not propounding rebellion and recognizing my own voice—though I applaud that step in time. I’m not embracing my bad habits, defiantly poised against corporate motherhood telling us to eat our broccoli and go to the gym.
The sun’s rays and the road’s grit
push through spirit and out the mind.
Silent, I can finally hear and sing.
In a brave moment, I could admit to knowing the backward girl’s power. It was a flicker, the flash of a fearful cat streaking through a room. Something told me it was true, I had seen it, almost. Maybe I could nurse it out into my conscious mind to demystify and abandon.
Gina’s often late with the rent. She’ll call me to say when she’ll be able to mail it. Sometimes it comes in two chunks—often with passes for the movie theater where she works. I thank her for letting me know. I always emphasize how helpful it is to know. It’s already past the tenth and [...]
Two muses for my creative spirit–difficult ones–finally meet. The Avalanches of Loneliness in Small Matters and Frazzle.