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Monthly Archives: November 2012

Noël; Noëlle.

I always go out to coffee with at the same place with one of my close friends when we’re home. She is the friend who taught me the best things: she makes sure we meet up every time we’re both home, drives me both ways if need be, and always, always cares.

I know she does this deliberately, as a decision. Noëlle cares so much about people; is so deliberate about staying with them even if she can’t talk to them for weeks at a time; is so deliberate about who she’ll invest in, especially and wholly. And she knows how nice it is when sometimes, for no reason, someone buys your coffee and a croissant to share.

And then, the other night, as I began the late-night stage of a frantic paper, a friend agreed to come study with me, and, out of nowhere, asked what he could bring me from Starbucks on his way over.

These people are the best. I want to be like them.

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Today we’re younger than we ever gonna be.

Regina Spektor, “Small Town Moon” (What We Saw From the Cheap Seats)

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Gutsily, lustily, and with bravado.

So we sang at Sufjan tonight, welcoming the commercial Christmas season. This year, I’m surprised to find, I don’t mind Christmas starting early. I’ve already bought one Christmas gift and card, and I’ve liked seeing the red Starbucks cups and have delighted in the lights going up. Less Grinchy this year, I suppose.

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I’m high as I’m hi Justine I
Anastaysia, via Siri

M and I used to talk in high school about poets; about whether, though she was the one who wrote, I was the one doomed to be.

I hunted heaven
for him.

No dice.

Too uppity,
it was. Not enough

music, or dark dirt. . .
Kevin Young, Pietà

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Flesh-blood colors.

I knew I should take a picture for the crescent moon today, but I was too embarrassed to stop on the bridge with so many people crossing it too. I pretended to just be holding my phone in some funny way and hit the camera button twice.

Swallow your spit, my professor tells me several times weekly these days. “Move your tailbone. Some kind of inhibition has held you. Don’t let it rule.”

I like my plastic-wrap blanket: the wrinkled, tight, clear layers that let me appear to be but not have to move to be.

I’ll grasp scissors; start stabbing, jabbing, slicing upward, and ripping it. Mold flesh and blood and meat on the bones I built.

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