Mozaiks

"Se habla espanol?" Said a tall man to a nervous looking foreigner. My mind had been searching for the words to explain to him what I needed to know.

"Si, Si," he replied enthusiastically. When he returned to my register, he said two things to me: "First time," and "I know, next time."

"Some people yearn for the open road, some people just yearn for their driveways," the tall man said. I felt something, affection, complacency leaving my bones.

It's harder for certain people do things like, picking up the pieces of future mozaiks in Tony's backyard. Ceramic and porcelain that belonged to an artisan or a collector at different points in time.

"I wanted to prove to you on Sunday that I could get up and work."

I get up and work 6 days a week, school for 5, drink a cup of coffee in the afternoon, and lay my head on a pillow at night. Still I ask, "why am I not strong? Like the wheel that keeps travelers, traveling on." I figure in not too long a time, it will take me home.

But like I said, it's harder for him, and 5 hours, starting at 7AM is a huge accomplishment. My 12 hour days continue to go unnoticed, and the North acts as a Beacon of hope in my chest. I hardly think about Central, or Mountain time anymore. Just about the man on a box that is New England.

North Station, and places I used to explore on my own.

The Lonliest State

I don't get their jokes, they don't laugh at mine. I've been trying to smile more anyways, as if I could fool them into believing I found them amusing...I don't.

Still, in Lowell, I remember belly-aching laughs. Tirades that would last for months, become user-names, and facebook groups, and work its way around campus until you heard someone you had never met laughing about it.

I don't go to Church. I've been twice, maybe. Once for a funeral, once because I slept over a friends house on a Saturday. I've considered lying to my peers and telling them I was Jewish just so they would give me that same sad, sympathetic look they give foreigners. I may as well be a ghost, or the shell of a human walking about without a soul.

"You're a bad-ass, like me," Tim assured me in the parking lot. Great.

Still, I remember the glass crashing at my feet and the smile on that fiery red head, the Alaskan Fisherman. Afterwords, I thought he might come back to the store a second time. I realized later that that had been wishful thinking. I'd get on better anywhere else but this place. Every time I remember what it's like the get along with people, it tears at my heart. But being alone is okay too, I guess. I can't wait to go home.

Dreaming

Head on pillow, breathing softly in and out, harder now, trying to move my limbs, crying out. Nobody can hear me.

I keep waking up thinking I've just cooked my roomates soup, or given into my most evil desires. The one's that leave one asleep in the car, or hopefully asleep at the wheel, but not to endanger anyone, just to drift over enough to jolt them awake.

I wanted to go to school today. It just reminds me of everyday in my life I've ever been snowed in. Every time I've had to wipe off my car, or drive when it was far too dangerous. It reminds me of the first blizzard I ever drove in, except without the fleet of plows, like guardian angels, flying down the highway. It reminds me of the almost accidents: fishtailing, sliding, snow banks, screams; Being jolted awake.

Americana/Folk

Way out, across the ramparts,
Are these corners of what could have been a tender seed of grass?
Or what's more across the shore?
Sixteen dozen doves fly,
Towards a million miles of freedom,
Save the shore line where we were born, and we will lie.
Let's walk in remission,
With feet stuck in the mud.
"For crying out loud!"
There is broken glass that I broke myself.

A Tendor History in Rust

4 hours left.

I've always written on New Years, retrospectively. I want to remember who I was with last year at this time, nibbling carrot sticks in some dining room in Watertown. I remember the sweater I was wearing, the champagne flying across the room, and feeling older than I really was. I remember the snow on the ground, and the ice on the steps. I remember going home, driving home in spite of the ice and the cold.

If we're being retrospective, I owe more apologies than I have fingers to count with. I wish I could whistle. I wish I could send today's warmth into the hearts of all those I care about. As if it would fix them, fix us, or just make them smile.

I still hate doing the dishes. That hasn't changed. I've just had more alone time to think about it.

The blessing of his life.

I sign contractual agreements I cannot fulfill. It is a classic behavior of mine: unreliability. I guess you could call me a flake. The secret that lives deep within my stomach lining tears at my heart. It makes me turn my eyes away from their questioning gaze. Everyone that cares for me needs to hear that I am okay. However, I'm running down the street, I'm smashing the window with my mind on the only one thing of value in that house to me. The only living reminder of my father's mother. It's something to keep me warm for the cold nights ahead.

Unreliable, but I would never punish them with the cold. Especially for something so small: something that you could hold in your hands, or wear on your body: something that could be returned or compensated for: something that hurt no one.

The glass will bite through the skin of my knuckles. I'll think of your face, your glasses knocked to the ground. How I prefer your dog. And that will hurt. You, yes physically, but mostly me for wasting my time, for being so weak, and for starting a fight with my anxiety that I'll always loose.

And I'm falling down over cold pavement and looking around but no ones there. I can see the bus back home, just not the home I'm supposed to go to.

Tonight:

It all changes.