Something to be said for crises.
PMS forcing its fingers apart and loosening its grip on my brain, a quiet evening with the invalid, pizza with too many mushrooms and leaning into him while he read a story from Callahan's Crosstime Saloon out loud in his perfect actor's pitch and timbre and I woke up this morning with a sore neck and renewed belief in people, thinking of Steven and thinking of the already germinating plans pushing their shoots past the fog in my head.
Putting up the new shower curtain, watching water splash and sud and rinse clear from dishes I've been meaning to do, my grimy kitchen flooded with morning and my head slowly clearing and the phone rang and I knew as I was running for it that the whirlwind was waiting for me again.
A friend in the sort of trouble that fucked me up for months the first half of my eighteenth year, and I'm wearing battle gear again.
Thinking of school, calling McGill today to make sure they're going to rape me anally and that I should bite my lip and start adult ed courses at Concordia to get my grades up for a Master's degree.
I wonder if writing classes count.
Imagine, learning to put these words together as if they were a tool with a fine gripped handle and not simply a mess of soap and sticky floors.
The sun isn't out yet but there's a perfect blue hole in the clouds and I'm dancing in it.
And cf, you don't have to worry about me. You don't. But thank you for letting me know that it's okay... That means you'll never have to worry, I think.