Notebook (Jocey)
Wolf Trap, Virginia (1965)
I'm throwing up my lunch. Salty fries and buttery cornbread. The translucent thick saliva catches on heather and prickly nettles. I see the trees expand in the elastic kaleidoscope of my throat juice. My country is wide and generous. God gave America trees, gave America hardware stores lit with God's light.
Potato and corn, in congealed sparkling spit, mixing with the earth below. Mixing with it all.
Daddy had been drivin' for twenty hours straight and when he told us he almost gone straight to sleep well Mama threw a hissy fit. He kept on cursin' and sayin' she's a big kid who loves hissy fits. That what the hell did she think? That this was gonna go on and be some kind of magic trip?
We started with Jesus mama says. Cuz we began in Albuquerque at the goddamn proverbial crossroads where we took Route 40. We stopped in Wolf Trap because Mama has family here.
They were all four waiting for us on the front porch. All four blondes, so fresh like morning mist rising from the lake.
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I met up with Paul's friend again to go over my writing. To see what would fit, what makes sense. He stood there and swallowed the room whole. Inhaled me out, the windowsill, a chair. He had this fire, I think, that I can't quite pin down but I know it was the sea and I know it was the sandy New Mexico land. It wasn't foreign but it didn't feel familiar.
A wind chill on Mars.
An intergalactic sigh.
The bend of a flower.
All so delicate.
I couldn't explain this longing, this version of clarity I had grown addicted to.
What is this longing? What is this love?
Paul's friend - the great big flannel-wearing bear - is being inundated by acquaintances who fill in the room like a school of fish. Slippery with the rain outside, flashy eyed (flash flash) and slithering around looking for beers and cigarettes. Music plays and a few girls start dancing. He smiles with his eyes only while his mouth remains a flat dead-patient line. My brain hurts with the inability to paint him in this moment with his smile to capture it all, to be his creator in this moment in time to copyright his face his eye crinkle the spark in his eyes. It's all too much and I borrow a cigarette off him and go outside. A few dogs are eating raw steaks on the deck in the backyard. Their snarls glisten with strength and meat.
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The oldest blonde is digging her nails into my arm. Four crescents blossom with rushes of pain over and over. Four crescents blossom with rushes of pain over and over. I try to memorise the Sun's allure. I try to memorise the leaves and the trees. I'm unaware of what's really happening here. I believe the best in her. I believe I upset her when I wanted to know if she made it into Princeton. It's all mama ever talks about since auntie rings up and tells us oh look how smart Lucy is. She shows me the rejection letter, sets it on fire and lights a cigarette with it. We share it. She tells me she lost her virginity in the boys' bathroom last year and that she can't escape Wolf Trap. A wolf pup, a trapped paw. An arm with bloomed crescents all over it. I howl with pain and turn it into a song when panic surfaces on her face. Fresh panic like a lilac mist over Impressionist lakes. Fresh fresh panic. I want some dinner real bad. Some potatoes, some green beans. Bread.
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I look at Paul sleeping. Deeper in the woods. Orpheus looked back. What is this love? What is this longing? This love is clear because we know who is following. And who is leading. And when to switch places.
A wind chill on Mars.
An intergalactic sigh.
The bend of a flower.
All so delicate.
I couldn't explain this longing, this version of clarity I had grown addicted to.
What is this longing? What is this love?
Paul's friend - the great big flannel-wearing bear - is being inundated by acquaintances who fill in the room like a school of fish. Slippery with the rain outside, flashy eyed (flash flash) and slithering around looking for beers and cigarettes. Music plays and a few girls start dancing. He smiles with his eyes only while his mouth remains a flat dead-patient line. My brain hurts with the inability to paint him in this moment with his smile to capture it all, to be his creator in this moment in time to copyright his face his eye crinkle the spark in his eyes. It's all too much and I borrow a cigarette off him and go outside. A few dogs are eating raw steaks on the deck in the backyard. Their snarls glisten with strength and meat.
-
The oldest blonde is digging her nails into my arm. Four crescents blossom with rushes of pain over and over. Four crescents blossom with rushes of pain over and over. I try to memorise the Sun's allure. I try to memorise the leaves and the trees. I'm unaware of what's really happening here. I believe the best in her. I believe I upset her when I wanted to know if she made it into Princeton. It's all mama ever talks about since auntie rings up and tells us oh look how smart Lucy is. She shows me the rejection letter, sets it on fire and lights a cigarette with it. We share it. She tells me she lost her virginity in the boys' bathroom last year and that she can't escape Wolf Trap. A wolf pup, a trapped paw. An arm with bloomed crescents all over it. I howl with pain and turn it into a song when panic surfaces on her face. Fresh panic like a lilac mist over Impressionist lakes. Fresh fresh panic. I want some dinner real bad. Some potatoes, some green beans. Bread.
-
I look at Paul sleeping. Deeper in the woods. Orpheus looked back. What is this love? What is this longing? This love is clear because we know who is following. And who is leading. And when to switch places.
Above is a word on a paper.
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