Notebook (Jocey)
New York City, 1977
We had run across the city, sweaty, breathless, sitting on the train messy messy. Spark spark cement spark spark rails iron iro n i r o n.
I had a realisation the other day and I knew her and I were soul sisters. Both covering with so much sunset orange what was screaming forest nature. I realised that the girl on the subway sitting with legs crossed and poised was unlike us but of this world entirely. Letting the world go by, taking it in stride, taking it as it is.Holding a brand new novel with half-fingered gloves and a black coat on.
Here is a strikethrough I had put in months after writing the passage. I know it had been added post entry because it is in blue. Blue, I had decided in my childhood, would be the writer's cure and the editor's itch. Blue is visionary my mama would say putting up the clothes in the bleaching sun. Blue....heals Joce.
I notice my inner eye has changed in the past year. I do not hang upon a pretty face the wa
She inspires. She demands attention and knows how to hold it with confidence. I do not believe in her spirit but I believe in the mechanism of her being.
There is nothing natural about the way she speaks nor is there talent in her poem.
I want to wear her vision over my eyes so that I can look at myself in the mirror with it. This reminds me of the time before the big move out of New Mexico when Bobby and I floated in the pool and the leaves were falling and were clothing the water. The brown skins segmenting pieces of water into a recognisable existence segmenting segmenting
The linden trees embrace above me. Mimicking, in green vein and rustling ash, love-making. Sharp branches jutting out of intoxicating flower mouths and leafy opulence salivating pollen. Salivating the spirit of this nation. Salivating it all out above me until
The city morphs, changes skin, changes leaf.
New York City, 1977
We had run across the city, sweaty, breathless, sitting on the train messy messy. Spark spark cement spark spark rails iron iro n i r o n.
I had a realisation the other day and I knew her and I were soul sisters. Both covering with so much sunset orange what was screaming forest nature. I realised that the girl on the subway sitting with legs crossed and poised was unlike us but of this world entirely. Letting the world go by, taking it in stride, taking it as it is.
Here is a strikethrough I had put in months after writing the passage. I know it had been added post entry because it is in blue. Blue, I had decided in my childhood, would be the writer's cure and the editor's itch. Blue is visionary my mama would say putting up the clothes in the bleaching sun. Blue....heals Joce.
She inspires. She demands attention and knows how to hold it with confidence. I do not believe in her spirit but I believe in the mechanism of her being.
There is nothing natural about the way she speaks nor is there talent in her poem.
I want to wear her vision over my eyes so that I can look at myself in the mirror with it. This reminds me of the time before the big move out of New Mexico when Bobby and I floated in the pool and the leaves were falling and were clothing the water. The brown skins segmenting pieces of water into a recognisable existence segmenting segmenting
The linden trees embrace above me. Mimicking, in green vein and rustling ash, love-making. Sharp branches jutting out of intoxicating flower mouths and leafy opulence salivating pollen. Salivating the spirit of this nation. Salivating it all out above me until
The city morphs, changes skin, changes leaf.
What is this drift? What is this love? "At the end of the day, I've got myself"
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