2002-01-02 || 9:04 p.m.

|| the second day of this one year. ||

i think i might like to go into hiding. wear knee socks every day of the week. sew clothes and curtains and quilts. work on my typing skills. live on a diet of green apples and brown rice and nutella. listen to jazz all the time after i get the record player to work again. read all the text in coffee table picture books i have glossed over. memorize the significance of the saints (saint barbara is the patron (matron?) saint of television.). know the names of all the bones of the body.

i think i might like to sew this mouth shut for a while. rediscover the greatness of correspondence and scented stationery. not answer phone calls. caulk the door shut and leave the oven on for too long so that the kitchen warms up.

i haven't said a word to a real live person since the 'thank you. good night' to the bus driver at 6:32 this evening. i am pretending that i like it this way. that the empty cupboards and piles of laundry are that way because i want them to be. that i haven't taken my shoes off yet and i had a cigarette for dinner and my heart is hurting, faintly, because this is how i choose to spend my evenings.

this is most likely hormones. the calendar says it is. but i am weepy and unsettled and i am wanting to move away right now except i can't think of a good spot to get away to and i don't have a map handy.

(what happens when you can't really think of anything? when all your thoughts are truncated and you're left sitting there, with your shoes on, with your coat slumped next to you, wondering what comes next.)

i get this feeling every once in a while. it isn't very comforting to blame it on the hormones, that your body has a natural inclination to turn on you once a month. it isn't very comforting to think this will pass, you will wake up and the sun will be out again and you will go out there and notice how beautiful the leaves have gotten, even though they are dying on the sidewalk.

to think this is caused by chemical combinations. the date. hurt that comes from a boy you should have forgotten the likes of by now (pay attention to that one because i am afraid it is the real reason. compounded by the chemicals and the date and the getting up on the wrong side of the bed, sure. but make no mistake: i am this very simple person who runs in circles and clutches the things that puts holes in my heart. who lets myself skip like a broken record and then falls out of rotation and is very surprised the fall hurts so much.)

delayed reactions. diagrams of the heart as merely an organ. pep talks and sharp objects right there in plain view.

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