Canyon Lake

Eat river rocks. That’s what they told her. Eat them or we will kill you. What was left to do? Texas river rocks are jagged, corroding chunks of limestone. Not the smooth black and grey stones she imagined would be in Oregon. The kind that slide tidily down your throat. If she had lived, her esophagus would have never recovered. But the point was that she should not. The stones filled her abdomen from the uterus to the sternum. If the internal damage were not enough, they threw her in the water. Not river water. Shallow Texas rivers which you can wade in shorts. No, they threw her in dammed water. Deep dammed water, but such a pretty green!

She did not want to die, and even knowing that she would, she gave her body the chance that she could. She gulped fragrant Texas air, calmly. Calmly. She tried to conserve energy in the middle of a damned lake. She knew that her lungs were flotation devices, and that the point of the rocks was to weigh them down, she knew, too, that her stomach was torn open. That rocks had spilled into the rest of her body. It wasn’t long before she could feel the rocks in her biceps tumbling their way down into her fingertips, but she didn’t want to die. She really didn’t want to die. So she just kept swimming, calmly, but the rocks were multiplying inside of her. She could feel them pressing around her lungs, keeping her from taking as deep of a breath as she liked. By the time she could feel the rocks in her feet, they had also made her cold. But she didn’t want to die. Her calves, her chest, even her head, were now all filled with river rocks. The bank was a long way away.

It was the rocks in her head that did it. They must have clouded her thinking. Because she didn’t want to die, and the surface of the water felt so nice. Almost warm. There, right there she could feel a little sun-warmed pocket in the water. And if she could just rest her head on the glassy surface, and take a nap in the warm water pocket, then she could rest, and she wouldn’t have to die. She only meant to rest. Her muscles were so full of rocks, and her body hurt so bad. The blood was trickling up out her throat. By the time she understood that she could not rest here, it was too late. No one would even have been able to see her struggle inside the lake. Her head was beneath water, and kick as she would, the rocks would not let her resurface. She tried to will them out of her body, she clawed at her own stomach, gouging nails into her own flesh in a desperate attempt to spill the rocks from her body. Then she gagged and sucked in a pointed stream, and her lungs spasmed in an attempt to expel water. And even with the spasming lungs, she did not want to die. Her limbs struggled violently to return to the surface, but the rocks stilled them. A wave rode over her brain from the inside, and her body went limp. She wafted to the bottom like a sheet of paper, but her eyes were open wide, and she did not sleep.

Note to Tacky-Ass Neighbors

I hate your wind chimes. They are not classy. They are not cute. They do not grace the breeze with their melodious voice. They are an out-of-tune clanging, a jarring noise on an otherwise peaceful and beautiful day.

I cannot fathom what possessed you to put them up. OUTSIDE of all places. You think you're sharing something cute with the rest of us? Have you LISTENED to those damn things? The wind, IT weaves a beautiful song on days like these. But I can't fucking HEAR it because your idea of sharing beauty with your neighbors is hanging Wal-Mart's trash in your backyard.

Yellow Bird

Darling, if I could, I would cradle your head in my lap behind the arches in my knees. I'd cup my body over you, and make a home for you here. Beneath my wishbone. A cavern of stars in my chest. There would be enough tender gestures to make you cry. If I could.

There are raisins behind my wishbone right now. Twenty year old raisins. Oh, they're sweet all right darling, and stale, and rock hard. And when you suck some juice back into them, what are they still but raisins?

Note to Too Cool Cat Watching the Superbowl in My Living Room:

Old does not equal lame.

Open-faced joy does not equal nerdy.

The Boss does not equal irrelevant has-been.

I'd thank you to keep your lameness to yourself since I do enjoy Bruce Springsteen.

Your jokes wouldn't even be funny to someone who doesn't like Bruce, so it's just an all around waste. I wish Elliott Smith was watching the Superbowl in my living room. Or Brandi Carlile. I'm pretty sure they would know the difference between Cool and Cynical. They'd understand the strength of character it takes to step on a stage like that without the pretense that they are superior to their audience. Not having that pretense doesn't make a performer vulnerable or weak, Cool Cat, so who are you playing the vulture for?

Girls

Her imagination had failed her. It was hard to say exactly when, but it was possible to draw a definite line between the glowing ambitions of the 14 year-old girl and her 24 year-old counterpart. The girl had the sense to resist the influence of her mother, for one. The girl had known that the mother was crazy, and though a loving mother, and one to be loved in return, not the type of mother who is a good example on how to live your life. Certainly not the type of mother into who's hands you put your life like so much clay to be molded and fire-hardened.

The 24 year-old version did not know these things.

She had been sidetracked. She had been hurt. She had looked for shelter, but found none. Her imagination failed her when she failed to realize that if you don't see shelter, it is always an option to make some. Instead, she had returned to live beneath the mother's wing, and all that the mother asked in return was that she hand over her un-sculpted clay-life. The 24 year-old refused to address the error in doing so. But such is weakness, and we all know it well.

And what can a sideline observer do to alter this burning course in self-destruction? Bear witness? The imperfections in the observer form gigantic crater-like blemishes on the plane of their relationship. The greatest imperfection is not knowing how to span them.

The relationship is doomed to die. The Observer and the 24 year-old with the once-beautiful imagination. When you are 24 and tell people that something inside of you has died, as if that's not news, tragic, or anything but matter-of-fact... what is left to save? You have already moved beyond even grieving for the dead thing inside of you. One can only hope that it's a winter-time death, but if you're telling them, then it's because they are not your Spring. They cannot bring it back to life. The Observer is not the 24 year-old's Spring. What is left to say?

The 24 year-old cuts glances at the Observer with such slitted little eyes. She is weary of her witness. She is irritable and weary of everything around her, and her once-beautiful imagination is shriveled inside of her, a tender bud faced with winter cold.