novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- stem closure i have been sitting on the roof of my brother's apartment building on oak street, turning in slow circles, watching cars thread themselves through the victorians, underneath telephone wires stretching in every direction like an over-ambitious spider web. i would wait for a lull in the wind so i could light another cigarette before turning back to lorrie moore's birds of america. i had been reading the first few pages of each story, drawn in by good passages, and so in the middle of june, they landed at the dublin airport together. "we're going to go all around this island, every last peninsula," said mrs. mallon in the airport parking lot, revving the engine of their rented ford fiesta, "because that's just the kind of crazy yuppies we are." abby felt sick from the flight; and sitting on what should be the driver's side but without a steering wheel suddenly seemed emblematic of something. but eventually i would turn to the next one because i'd start to feel the story's numbly quiet vernacular creep over me. two people have recommended i read this book; one of them was a writing instructor who explained afterward that my writing echoed lorrie moore's sentiment. halfway through my start on the first story in the book, i realized that i'd read it years before, and had done the same exact thing. i could even remember which page i stopped at. today was my last day of work at the school. i spent the day expecting to cry with sentimentality at any moment, but only almost teared up once, when dropping off zippy. (buddy graduated a month or so ago, and that was a teary experience. i was undeniably happy all day, and while i felt guilty about it, my mood refused to descend. (i knew inside that i'd be back from time to time to visit the kids, especially certain ex-students, so i didn't feel like i'd be out of their lives forever.) (and things will forever after remind me of certain kids, to name a few: giant vans, little plastic animals, sand, lost jackets found months later, volkswagon bugs, the radio, round table, the play area at mcdonald's, and the rolling stones.) (and acoustic guitars.) (and holes punched through plaster.) (and swings.) (leaving is like learning how to breath again. maybe i was engineered for various escapes.) the stairs yelped with each footstep, and something metallic slammed against the wall of the stairwell in the wind. i found my way back into the apartment, to my brother's roommate playing some decidedly bloody exotic video game where the demons were morphs of humans and lizards or crustaceans. a large, pimpled fat woman cackled at the hero of the game, taunting him. you're so cute when you're angry! roommate hooked the sound up to the speakers so slashing and odd squelching noises are reaching far into the corners of this narrow, high ceilinged apartment. against this sound backdrop i am examining the bruises in various stages of healing on my arms and hands. scabs and scars dot my skin. if i pull a particular patch taut, i can see glistening white lines where i was bitten several times in the same place last year. no longer discernable tooth marks but faintly pearl dollops of a pattern much like lace. there are very few obvious scars but they are in strange places and i never show them to people. i tend to think bringing up a bite mark on your breast in conversation is more effective than actually displaying the scar, because the scar itself is very disappointing when compared to what you'd imagine it to be without visual aid. i wanted people to think i was tough, but then the physicality started to get to me. sometime this summer i stopped believing that my markings were red (or black, blue, or gray) badges of courage. i don't need physical evidence. in an hour kirsten will come over and we will go see the pirates of the caribbean, after which i will tell her about my new job, which starts tuesday, and my parents' glee over my finally getting a living wage. my year and a half on planet autism has ended fittingly; i was redirected. 6:43 pm - 08.15.03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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