Monday, March 20, 2017

BRAND-NEW ADMISSION

Which moon are we on? This morning the moon was in the late degrees of Sagittarius when I dreamed of you again. We were at Planet Fitness. I've witnessed you flirt with other women in my presence, drunk and sober. You weren't flirting but deep in conversation with a blind girl. She satisfied you mentally and spiritually. There was some recipe she mastered just by being herself. I'm still dropping eggs all over the linoleum. There was something profound between you and the blind girl and I was jealous like I always am and someone stole my car and the buses weren't running and then I was back at your place somehow and nothing was resolved. "She's just a nice girl," you told me. Nice is something I am not. Here is a list of things I am not. These are not facts but opinions that change with the moon.

1. Nice
2. Pretty
3. Smart
4. Relevant
5. Warm
6. Kind
7. Generous
8. Angelic
9. Blind

Number nine is a medical fact. My eyes work fine. In the metaphorical sense of the word you could say I am quite the bat. I'm blind but I keep flying. Where do I live? I live beneath a bridge in Austin. Many a motherfucker has witnessed my flight. Oh how they marvel and gawk and snap away. I have been seen!

Someday (the tarot cards won't tell me when, the bastards) I'll be dead. Quite. Maybe I'll still be flying. I am no kind of authority. Don't look to me for oracle type things. What does a bat know about anything other than what is immediately in front of them or a few familiar miles away? I'll be dead but right now I am alive doing this manic finger tapping dance. Procrastinating. It's time to do my taxes and get on another bus.

"That's as good as that girl is ever gonna have it," my maternal grandmother said once, crying, watching a disenfranchised relative board a Greyhound.

How good do any of us have it? I showed up at the block party. People had questions. I sat there in the San Antonio sun with my ugly gringa face and provided answers. What do I do? Nothing. I take art classes. I paint. I write. I live in a house that doesn't belong to me. I make guacamole and butter cookies. If motherfuckers give me a microphone I'll use the damn thing. I sang "She's Got You" by Patsy Cline. "Sing to me," the birthday boy said. So I sang to him. And then I sang the best rap ever recorded because I woke up quick at about noon. And people laughed. "Crazy white bitch! Who the fuck does she think she is? Singing a black man's song!" And we played Cards Against Humanity and I left before I won. It was three o'clock in the morning. I had zero trouble falling asleep alone like I always am in my pretty French antique bed.

This is not a love letter. This is no kind of request. Stay there where you are. You will love again. It's the lottery. I hope you win. I hope I win, too. Right now I think the odds are stacked against me but ask me again tomorrow when the moon is in Capricorn on top of my Jupiter. I see a row of sevens smiling oh so high.

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