or did i write that last time? hopeful, tired voices braided on a staticky three-way line. we are sticky, hurricane-weary with defeat but also look-forwardness, like we will make it work somehow. i am anxious to dig up a body story, a story about
walking down a costa rican street on thick legs, trudging back from the gym, a man leaning out a window to holler across the highway: "¡hola GORDIIIIIS!" -
tentatively rocking big hips, a coke in my hand, about to cross the street, a man cocking his head out the passenger window as his friend cruises up to the light: "mi amor, quiero coca. ¿me regala la coca, mi amor?...está bien. ¿no me lo quieres regalar? está bien."
happily crossing the plaza near the teatro nacional, trying not to jiggle, munching on a pastry, a man calls out from a nearby bench, "comparte ese dulce conmigo, tu no lo necesitas..."
(more than 100, that's ok!)
this is basically what three hundred words looks like, while we're at it.
So, Keila is this dirt rocker girl who works with me at the ice cream store. She goes to another high school, a different one than the one I went to, on the other side of town. But she hangs out with a lot of Mexican dirt rocker kids. She even speaks a little bit of Spanish. We both have in common that we believe in wearing lots of eyeliner, except she wears hers the Bradington blonde-girl dirt rocker way - on the inside of her lower eyelid, so that a thin, inky, wet black line seeps out from behind her lower eyelashes - and I wear mine in a thick, charcoal black line on my eyelids, across my upper lashes only, like the lewd ladies on the covers of the Herp Alpert and the Tijauana Brass albums. I actually hate the way that inside-the-lower-eyelid eyeliner looks, but I keep it to myself because I can respect and understand the desire to wear really noticeable eyeliner. We are also both united by our scorn and bemusement over Cano. Our boss. The owner of the Bradington square mall ice cream shop franchise.
Cano has a wife, and he also has a girlfriend. Or mistress, I don't know what cheating married men actually call their hoochies, their women. All we know is that both his wife and his girlfriend call themselves Ruth when they call the store. Keila and I have decided that this is a tactic Cano has figured out to avoid confusion and drama--for example, so that neither of us will ever be able to casually leak out anything about, say, a woman named Sally calling him at work all the time. It is obvious they are not the same person--we can tell the difference by their voices.
it's black outside the window. it's getting more cozy in here. the walls are a delicate pale green. there is a layer of dog hair on everything. the air conditioning is a little too cold to be comfortable. the papier mache cake we made in the afterschool program sits on a stool that needs to be thrown away. every time i look at it i feel nervous, like i've failed somehow. this is going to suck until i get less self-conscious about it. i have a little headache shooting down the left side of my forehead. radio: "pots of gumbo."
after the c.c. workshop one of the goals i set for myself was to do some kind of small daily creative practice. this blog has languished, but i think i can bring it back to life for this purpose. one sort of inspiring/encouraging thing i've seen recently was a website where you can sign up to write 100 words a day. this is less daunting than anne lamott's 300 words a day, at least for now, so let's try it. i am armed with a dorky, freshly-downloaded word count extension for firefox. i'm up to 92 words now. 100! ok?
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