turnstiles
"so are you going to take me to lulu's or not?"
"actually, no; yesterday i read in the paper's police section that someone reported eating glass in one of the takeout boxes."
"oh."
pause.
"well, i've been playing around with the thought of. maybe, could you come over later so i can start working on some sketches?"
pause.
"you there?"
"yeah."
pause.
"ummm..."
"alright. when do you want me to show up."
"half an hour? or you could come with me to get paint and some other goodies."
"alright."
later it's about a dry room with more sunlight than mine has streaming in. i feel ugly and unready to go back. also, thinking of julia. miss her. wonder who's posing for her camera today. sad. jealous maybe. recent letter. she went to a party in boston where she now lives with a girl named margarita (?? marguerita?? "spanish," she says. maybe puerto rican?). she writes that she "went to a dance" and some boy "kissed her" and then her words "so i bit him." quite of lot of teeth in her life these days. maybe that was the way it always was. she was always a lover. born that way. too much heat and we don't match very well. coffee shops with angels and chocolate and high heeled shoes. she likes boys who keep her guessing, who keep her on her toes. she likes it when boys lie to her, and then tell her matter of factly the truth behind this.
and there are just too many black umbrellas.
missing her radiance. thinking of her too much as he sets up his junk. he won't ever know anything about me. even if i say something. no one knows anything about me. sometimes.
which is too lonely to think about.
coffee. "i'm going to make a pot of coffee, would you like some?" "yes, please." he cracks up. "why're you so polite around me?" i don't answer because i don't have an answer. he doesn't ask how i want it. he brings it over and it's how i want it. i don't say anything. i pause to set up a picture in my mind: what if i broke his coffee cup. it's the good kind.
he likes songs: ohia and he realises that has the potential to be embarrassing, as i do. i tell him i feel the same way. we listen to the lioness album and he asks which is my favorite. i tell him a story about driving into pittsburgh and it's drizzling and my mom turns to the station that is supposedly giving information to incoming students about where to park. instead it's a boy disc jockey playing lioness over and over again, the whole album, and my parents don't care enough to change the station. and i listen a lot. and feel reaffirmed about something vague, that i'll never know who that boy was but that i'm glad he did that, yeah. and apparently his favorite was "tigress" 'cause he played it repeatedly, more so than the others. and jon just nods and when i finish he tells me i've finished my cup and would i like another. he fills it and it occurs to me this is better coffee than anything i've had since being home. and i miss home once AGAIN.
"how still do you want me to be?"
"actually it'd be good warm up to just not pay attention. do whatever. i'm just going to make mental notes. the more you move around the more challenging it'll be. here, i'll give you a tour of the place. don't freak out about my looking at you, okay?"
nod.
/
"so would you consider ever doing that?"
"i would've. before. not now."
"why not?"
"ah. i was. um. i went through some physical trauma last year. i don't want to freak anyone out. there's--my whole torso is just, scars. my mom has a hard time looking at it. so."
looking to his face. "what?"
"nothing. i just. you worry too much. or misunderstand maybe."
bristle.
"hey."
"you don't know anything about. that. i fucked up. i mean it's not like i was fucking pretty as it was. i don't plan on letting anyone near that mistake. not you. not someone bent on beauty. fuck it. i'm stupid but. i'm not looking for a lashing. and i don't want pity. anyone, they'd just. there'd be a flash of pity and then they'd look down to their fucking canvases. argh. i hate. being visible."
"don't be."
"what the hell do you know. i don't think i want to be drawn any way."
"whoa, calm down."
he draws a sigh. i want to get the fuck out of there. i feel. even worse. by comparison.
i hate artists. a deep pain down somewhere. broken connection. fake devotion. fake admiration. all one cares about if they're true like that is, is the higher bit. which is as it should be perhaps. fine. i just don't want to be involved. it's always some accident i get myself into.
i swear i wasn't meant to be visible.
and if i leave, it's just some other girl. of course. that's no one's "fault," it's just the world being. itself. alive maybe. changing. i just don't want to run so fast. i'll seep into the cracks and lie still or shake maybe. at this point when it comes to all of those "higher" things--art, beauty, sex, toil, heart, pulse, skyline, exhiliration, devotion, madness, brilliance, light, fingers, anything--i really don't see the point in having a face. i'm just any other girl he'd find and waste his time thinking about for a couple of weeks. a month. a year. a lifetime. what's the difference.
no one loves you. just the idea of loving you.
"actually, no; yesterday i read in the paper's police section that someone reported eating glass in one of the takeout boxes."
"oh."
pause.
"well, i've been playing around with the thought of. maybe, could you come over later so i can start working on some sketches?"
pause.
"you there?"
"yeah."
pause.
"ummm..."
"alright. when do you want me to show up."
"half an hour? or you could come with me to get paint and some other goodies."
"alright."
later it's about a dry room with more sunlight than mine has streaming in. i feel ugly and unready to go back. also, thinking of julia. miss her. wonder who's posing for her camera today. sad. jealous maybe. recent letter. she went to a party in boston where she now lives with a girl named margarita (?? marguerita?? "spanish," she says. maybe puerto rican?). she writes that she "went to a dance" and some boy "kissed her" and then her words "so i bit him." quite of lot of teeth in her life these days. maybe that was the way it always was. she was always a lover. born that way. too much heat and we don't match very well. coffee shops with angels and chocolate and high heeled shoes. she likes boys who keep her guessing, who keep her on her toes. she likes it when boys lie to her, and then tell her matter of factly the truth behind this.
and there are just too many black umbrellas.
missing her radiance. thinking of her too much as he sets up his junk. he won't ever know anything about me. even if i say something. no one knows anything about me. sometimes.
which is too lonely to think about.
coffee. "i'm going to make a pot of coffee, would you like some?" "yes, please." he cracks up. "why're you so polite around me?" i don't answer because i don't have an answer. he doesn't ask how i want it. he brings it over and it's how i want it. i don't say anything. i pause to set up a picture in my mind: what if i broke his coffee cup. it's the good kind.
he likes songs: ohia and he realises that has the potential to be embarrassing, as i do. i tell him i feel the same way. we listen to the lioness album and he asks which is my favorite. i tell him a story about driving into pittsburgh and it's drizzling and my mom turns to the station that is supposedly giving information to incoming students about where to park. instead it's a boy disc jockey playing lioness over and over again, the whole album, and my parents don't care enough to change the station. and i listen a lot. and feel reaffirmed about something vague, that i'll never know who that boy was but that i'm glad he did that, yeah. and apparently his favorite was "tigress" 'cause he played it repeatedly, more so than the others. and jon just nods and when i finish he tells me i've finished my cup and would i like another. he fills it and it occurs to me this is better coffee than anything i've had since being home. and i miss home once AGAIN.
"how still do you want me to be?"
"actually it'd be good warm up to just not pay attention. do whatever. i'm just going to make mental notes. the more you move around the more challenging it'll be. here, i'll give you a tour of the place. don't freak out about my looking at you, okay?"
nod.
/
"so would you consider ever doing that?"
"i would've. before. not now."
"why not?"
"ah. i was. um. i went through some physical trauma last year. i don't want to freak anyone out. there's--my whole torso is just, scars. my mom has a hard time looking at it. so."
looking to his face. "what?"
"nothing. i just. you worry too much. or misunderstand maybe."
bristle.
"hey."
"you don't know anything about. that. i fucked up. i mean it's not like i was fucking pretty as it was. i don't plan on letting anyone near that mistake. not you. not someone bent on beauty. fuck it. i'm stupid but. i'm not looking for a lashing. and i don't want pity. anyone, they'd just. there'd be a flash of pity and then they'd look down to their fucking canvases. argh. i hate. being visible."
"don't be."
"what the hell do you know. i don't think i want to be drawn any way."
"whoa, calm down."
he draws a sigh. i want to get the fuck out of there. i feel. even worse. by comparison.
i hate artists. a deep pain down somewhere. broken connection. fake devotion. fake admiration. all one cares about if they're true like that is, is the higher bit. which is as it should be perhaps. fine. i just don't want to be involved. it's always some accident i get myself into.
i swear i wasn't meant to be visible.
and if i leave, it's just some other girl. of course. that's no one's "fault," it's just the world being. itself. alive maybe. changing. i just don't want to run so fast. i'll seep into the cracks and lie still or shake maybe. at this point when it comes to all of those "higher" things--art, beauty, sex, toil, heart, pulse, skyline, exhiliration, devotion, madness, brilliance, light, fingers, anything--i really don't see the point in having a face. i'm just any other girl he'd find and waste his time thinking about for a couple of weeks. a month. a year. a lifetime. what's the difference.
no one loves you. just the idea of loving you.