they pulled my hair at charm school.
they
stole my guestbook during
rolecall.
show and tell: mixed metaphors + November 30. 2003 = 11:02 p.m.
+ it�s an early night in the old 70�s house. the kitchen counter is a shipwreck. downed limes & pineapples drown in their own juice. the mouth of the jar of black bean dip has been left to yawn widely for the rest of its counter sitting days. onion husks. brownie crumbs. brie rinds. the cast-iron skillets, coated in grease and fish remains, rest at the bottom of the sink as if their delicate husks have been left to rot. if you asked any of us to smile ( i dare you to fetch glenn from his loft bed, or call to jess & peter and see if they answer from the interior of their room at the end of the hall. spy on ben in his music studio, or ask me to look away from the glowing screen of my mac) we would unknowingly reveal bruised looking teeth. nobody has bothered to put the bottle of wine into the big blue recycling bin. last night = beau�s show in cambridge. backstage dressing room = low tables & buckets of beer, manager of one band busily showing off pictures on her silver powerbook, drummer of newly minted �hot� band nods at us as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his heavy coat. wait with beau as he writes out set list . eat awful dinner at club. i am the girl suffering from strange stomach pains at one end of the table. i am the one with the flushed cheeks and the nearly empty wallet. beau�s manager rattles off stories that star his new martha-connected girlfriend. his curls shine as he leans towards us, as if even they have been affected by falling in love. beau whispers in my ear that his pills for stomach ailments have been left behind in the cold back seat of the striped chevy van. watch as other cast members arrive. friends, girlfriend of drummer, drummer�s old classmates. jess and i waste time at the bar before making choices. she�s handed something sweet & sour; i take the glass of gin. i am the girl that smiles as my Boston friend saunters into club, proving that email-sent-at-last-minute was received. we catch up on his most recent exploits. during unnerving (the bright lights were arranged on stage to blind audience) set by aforementioned �hot� band we escape outside for conversation. disregard remarks in which he worries that i am too cold, �you�re lips are turning purple. are you sure you don�t want to go back inside?� fill him in on august move. on sister�s engagement to CT stock broker. i am the girl who has sentences stuck in the back of her throat regarding the year she turned nineteen and he was there. i am the girl who, tonight, avoids extra free drink as if being handed arsenic, thus the sentences slip down towards her stomach, and all is right with the world. (dear night at the bowery, see! i did pay attention to the aftermath of one too many strong drinks.) inside there are coats to grab, goodbyes to air kiss at , back doors to sneak out of. long drive it home in the van with no heat. rest head on beau�s shoulder & press eyes shut. feel miles of exit signs & gas stations & frozen fields rattle past us. am certain that recent stomach pains & strange heart palpitations have much to do with essays i need to finish. oh, and all of the tiny decisions i have only months left to finalize. procrastination is my arch enemy; the doppelganger waiting for me in my bedroom when i come home; the assassin that materializes whenever i open my computer. for instance, tonight i played with putting this (the idea: that it will star projects i have completed while letting my paperwork languish) together instead of researching the best-colleges-for-alternative-students in nyc. play: manitoba. pretend to fall asleep with everything in its right place.
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