If this is Burma then I am down an arm which is to say here is comeuppance or justice for filching the knot of a green apple the cool tart hurt of a heart here, see through the thick humid of stalls they were to lop off the arm but who needed the pluck?
Wrong. This is not Burma. That is not Burma. This is a myth from a book grandparents haw and bray from where they explain ways and means really, really to create good fortune from fear.
In Burma the cars are colonizers the roads set free from a former conquest shotgun a necessity, a weak defense If this is Burma I am keenly aware the roads are open and independent and that a boy and land are formed, beyond belonging but conquest is heavy anyway and I am still wondering who from whom has lay claim to the set of arms as opposed to hands, calves, ass?
A mood or ache that wouldn’t even let me sleep empty and sweet. Woke up with my head throbbing. Woke up with that burn. No choice for quiet. Please help me not murder any single person in a five block vicinity. I had a moment where I almost turned back down the alley and bought a ticket to SFO and just wanted to leave for the week and start over when I get back.
You’re an animal! And I mean that in the best senses of the word. Your vitality is heading toward peak levels, and your body is as smart as it gets. If you ever wanted to explore the blending of grace and power, this is the moment. Give yourself permission to be a bolt of ingenious fun, Taurus. Play hard and sweet.
Free Will Astrology, May 10, 2011
I plan on playing hard. I do not plan on playing sweet.
No joke, I almost defriended anyone who wished me happy anything on Facebook today. Until I realized I was sort of fooling around with one and uh, awks.
But seriously, these black skinny jeans = best present to myself ever. And the massive gin bender I plan on going on after a rad bike ride home. WELL DONE QUARTER LIFER WELL DONE.
Your personal pace is about to shift, dramatically, and because it’s faster than you can imagine, you need to prepare. Make sure you know where you are going, why you’ve chosen that direction, and how you want to get there.
Ideally on a new red bike.
And maybe red cowboy boots.
And as the person I always think I want to see myself as.
Sometimes you’re just almost in the mid part of twenties and sort of spinning and one day you wake up with everyone else doing the same thing and you go, Okay. Mostly not pretty, but the way things be.
The first day I can bike to work in a t-shirt and a cuffed ankle. Ahead are Chicago stoop nights. Cold gin. Farmers Market. Basil. Cold showers. Tank tops. Sweaty shark bicycling. Street concerts. Hipstomania. Tacos. Park dates with the pup. Red Hot Ranch. Using heat to stop giving so much of a good goddamn. Metric. Hangovers. And all of this? All of this? I can handle on my lonesome.
1. Currently I’m completely back in obsession with “The Suburbs”. Can’t get enough. I wonder maybe if it has to do with some strange magical power I recently attained to travel back in time to circa Sophomore year (OF HIGH SCHOOL) or so. Except my brother is magically the same age and driving the car I hadn’t pretended to buy yet and I’ve started smoking cigarettes as a habit rather than some furtive squirrell-girl piss off imaginary people thing. I mean, “The Sweetness”? “Always On Time” (Where’d Ja Rule go, anyway?) The White Stripes when Jack White was only in THAT band? On another note: I’m constantly relieved I don’t wake up from the dream of being twenty something, only to be in my parents’ house and stumbling to first period. Most of the time.
2. Every spring when I get sick I wonder if it’s my voice changing into sexrasp.
3. Morning three of vivid endless dreams. Wake up and crane over my shoulder to see if the glowworm tattoo I just received with my eyes closed is still there. In this dream I don’t recognize anyone, at all. The girl who gives me the tattoo works bodymodification in the bottom of a tranny bar and I am asking for a tattoo to cover up skin I’d reserved for someone else. The walk goes fast there, in the pseudo-Chicago my brain has made up before. Clues: L tracks far too high to be safe, wide streets, endless, arcing freeways. I bring her beer. The light upstairs is red. Her hand on her shoulder blade is exquisite. She tells me I’m doing the right thing. Eradicating space from where once it may have been reserved for T., but the loan ran out. Her metaphor is awful. I can’t see what she begins to ink but both of her hands are this warm turtle shell on my back. There’s no electric gun. Just a needle and she’s pulling and poking and it only hurts in that hot wax way. We’re talking about cost-benefit analysis of performing in pornography, and I say fetish videos seem like a quiet compromise. She says only when you keep your clothes on. Never with chickens. After she finishes, and for some reason I don’t want her to stop, I crane my neck over and find a giant green glowworm traversing from my middlespine to my shoulder blade. My first thought is: I can never wear a strapless wedding dress. My second: I can’t go to the pool with numerous people this summer. She hugs me and I pay her ten dollars, which she won’t take, and I have to ask about tipping tattoo artists (of which I know all to well about).
Then I’m running up streets that have no real names in this city I wake and ride in. The temperature is falling and I can’t stop staring at the green slithering up my back. Somehow it begins to snow and I am in my mother’s car, being driven towards Christmas. Thinking, keep your shirt on. She’s mad. Cancelling Christmas maybe. Beneath us are lines of bicycles from last weekends cycle swap beneath the 90/53 interchange, and none of them are mine. They all got bought before I got there.
When I wake up, I am wondering if I could cover up a tattoo with makeup to wear a strapless wedding dress. Disappointed and relieved nothing is there.