little gray flies are scurrying along my windowsill, as walter minty dies a slow death

March 6, 2015

today, the twigs were special: cracking under my feet, mixed with wood chips, getting into the footbed of my birks; i wriggle my ankle to get them out. i opt for the path of springy green grass then cracking wood bits, because that’s the shorter path to my lecture rooms. a² + b² = c², my mind recites each time i stand at the fork dividing the stone pavement and uneven unpaved/unpathed spread. a second’s breath, and i step onto grass, holding my tea carefully so it does not spill. i often spill.

today, after grief & loss class, i ate lunch alone on the bench with the green grass. i noted oyster veg does not good leftovers make. i think my basil minced pork could have been drier. i drank my tea and wished it had stayed warm. i drank as much of it as i could bear, then flung the remainder into the bush on my left. i looked up; the branches were brilliant against the sun, and so were the leaves. small red flowers ran trails down to the trunk- i had only needed to look up.

on looking up: i reckoned i have an affinity with italian and middle eastern cuisine; the latter prompted me to look up the Levant. what i found makes me think i could travel these states, and be perfectly happy at mealtimes. could bes remind me of another time, a life away.

that i gave my could bes up for the here and now, is a transference of hope, a reworking of meaning. hello, i come to you with my heart in my hands, would you take care of it, please? it may not be much, but it’s all i have. i would break if you turned away.

so i work at my narratives, telling and retelling stories, shifting meanings, layering old ones. the work is hard going. i pick away at unyielding rock that tells me to return to the old forms; they want to be left alone, but i do not know how. what was his name, who said, for a ray of light to fall into the heart?


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