this week, is the same.
half and sometimes whole days to work, to collect this "art" or this "writing" from fingertips, but somehow it took all morning to quit the dream that might mean something awake, to gather the pillows and blanket back to the closet, to put both of the legs into pants and motion.
i say outloud that this, this fall of months, turning synonymous with two shreds of paychecks stretching across irresponsibility, is my freedom, to FINALLY write my story, the story that is either just beginning, or has reached it's teary conclusion.
but this week, i spend every free moment buried in another book, borges, castaneda, desai (i will never write this well), or chin down with a pen in my hand, trailing faces that are mine, are nothing like mine. across knuckles and forearm, a .5 mm outline of me, dropjaw with a flat top haircut peeks from my right knee, and glassesed bucktoothed adolescent me bleeds from a crowded corner of flatted out paper bag.
this week there are miles of pen to paper, but i haven't said a word about the woman crouching by the pink washbasin on chung san island south of korea. i can't put down the mustard teeth that line my brother's outloud laughing smile, the sweat that clung to my shoulders like i was home. korea, the story that built my bridge back to familiar faces, i watch the days pass that i fail to put it down, fluorescent spray paint stains on my sweatshirt and fingertips to show for.
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