12/17/2005
I Put a Spell on You
12.19.00
11.22.03
Shane's hair is bleach-blonde and a million hues of blue-green blue, he looks like the elfin offspring of an illicit affair between Scandinavian good-folk and pre-British water nymphs. I think of lists of ways to make him cry and spank him when he asks. If I cut his hair I could put a spell on him, as I tried to do with Jay, as Alice did to me.
Three people have brought me visions through their touch and each time the color/stories are different, are told in different tones. I miss Alice more than I will ever know. My dream father is always trying to strangle me and I have the idea she could help. I re-read her letter and don’t like the idea of looking forward to crying and hate seeing girls in tears in any event. If I had to cry with someone it’d be her because I think she would not hold it against me.
The washer is boiling over again; soap suds coat the living room floor and one of the cats is stuck mewing beneathe the couch. I remember, distantly, a poem about a man and his son finding a cat’s skeleton stuck in the plaster of a torn-down wall. I try to imagine what it feels like to dig a grave. ¶ 2:25 PM
11.22.03
Shane's hair is bleach-blonde and a million hues of blue-green blue, he looks like the elfin offspring of an illicit affair between Scandinavian good-folk and pre-British water nymphs. I think of lists of ways to make him cry and spank him when he asks. If I cut his hair I could put a spell on him, as I tried to do with Jay, as Alice did to me.
Three people have brought me visions through their touch and each time the color/stories are different, are told in different tones. I miss Alice more than I will ever know. My dream father is always trying to strangle me and I have the idea she could help. I re-read her letter and don’t like the idea of looking forward to crying and hate seeing girls in tears in any event. If I had to cry with someone it’d be her because I think she would not hold it against me.
The washer is boiling over again; soap suds coat the living room floor and one of the cats is stuck mewing beneathe the couch. I remember, distantly, a poem about a man and his son finding a cat’s skeleton stuck in the plaster of a torn-down wall. I try to imagine what it feels like to dig a grave. ¶ 2:25 PM
