let her talk about the things you can't explain

i was horribly distracted at work today by a groundhog.

you see, there are probably enough groundhogs on the carleton campus that everyone and their mother could take one home and we'd still be tripping over them. they live EVERYWHERE and are constantly out and about foraging for foodstuffs and the like. today though, the groundhog i was watching was particularly bold. when the armed guard marched by, in formation with loud shoes and everything, he watched lazily, not bothering to move from his patch of clover. and then, once they had passed and the fishbowl was once again quiet and still, he simply wandered into the basement of stormont for a look-see.

perhaps i shouldn't have been as amused as i was?

we are shaking the tree

i seem to be at a loss for words lately.

which is ridiculous, really, because so much happens, so many things occur in the small spaces of time i drift through that my documentation could be through the roof. the past week has been, without a doubt, one of the strangest, most heartbreakingly wonderful [and, at times, godawful] period of time. small snippets seem to stand out.

i'm thinking of the taste of cigarettes on kiersten's veranda after a night of gokarting, ice cream cake, expected revelations, and whiskey out of big paper cups.

i'm remembering the smell of my floor as i sprawled across it- soft, like murphy's wood oil soap. mika blaring, followed by alexisonfire, u2, and etta james, the sun burned a path in oblique angles as i remembered how to exhale.

i'm feeling the arms of my mother, my melissa, my evil stepmother, and especially my james as they descended on my home. i can feel their teeth, hear their hearts as i feel the grass of parliament, the cover of the stormtrooper helmet, the taste of mexican food and sangria.

i'm laughing at the three most important words in a play, said with a russian accent by necessity.

and my thoughts on graduation are, also by necessity, indeliable. that piece of paper is worth more to me than words can say. my absence from the group photo will dig at me forever. and myself- well, this can hardly be about the adventure of a twenty-ish university student anymore, can it?

i'll have to find my words. once i do, everything will be ok.

i've know you all summer and you rose above it all

the heat hangs off of everything here right now.

it feels like forty pounds on my chest, compounded by a summer cold that i refuse to admit to having and seven days of work without stopping.

at half two this afternoon, peter turned to me in the quiet of lanark and stated that he had a strange and building desire to do violence. when i finally recovered from the fit of laughter i succumbed to, i agreed. this weather, this town, it's all building toward something. the tension is almost too much to bear, pulled so taut.

this heat, it makes strange things happen.

maybe it'll rain?

why should i love you?

low light complimented by tall, sexy glasses full of amber liquid sum up the night.

i find myself jammed on a bench, my right side snug against kate as she talks to morgen in that comfortable way they have between them, words extended through gesture, eye movement, and history. to my left is peter, shoulders awkwardly hunched [as are mine, to accomodate everyone on the long bench], who, through the course of the evening, continues to make alarmingly hilarious comments about cheese and the like.

despite the uncharacteristically cold night- which almost demands socks and shoes- i leave feeling warm from the base of my toes to the tips of my hair.

my room is quiet, folk music on in the background.

i'm as readable as a book, i fear.

i take to sleep again where i dare pretend

electric shocks from the most complex of machines- the human heart.

thoughts swirl madly on nights like this. there's the constant sounds of horns, blaring from near and far. the aftertaste of fruit, cocnut rum, and spiced potatoes lingers in my mouth, decidedly good and bad all at once. my body seems to say sleep and my mind is overcharged - electified, if you will - filled with strange images. i want to dip my hands into red paint and capture some of it. i want to go to sleep and dream and reveal none of it. i think, sometimes, i'm stuck in a kind of time-warp, where i'm thirteen or so, unable to process or accurately voice my thoughts. coherency would be an added bonus at this point, methinks.

tomorrow morning, i'm making breakfast for lord-knows how many people.

come.

all the secret things in warm melted pots

i have become fascinated with the movements of muscles- sinew and tendons stretching across a frame, sheathed in skin, moving in bunches and waves and ripples. forearms may be my favourite, their movements slight as fingers dance around various objects, mixing batter in a bowl, slicing fruit, tossing sheets through the air. equally enthralling are calves, constantly defined and redefined as legs pump bicycle pedals, or move bodies up six flights, five flights, three flights of stairs. or maybe it's the thoughts of shoulders, relaxing as bodies sprawl over chairs, across the floor, on a balcony or a bus or a bed.

yes. i have definitely become more than fascinated.

there's lighteneing dancing across the sky tonight- the third night in a row. midnight rain splashes against the railings of my blacony, htting the edges of my basil, my lemonbalm, my rosemary, reminding me of home.

i may actually be the most homesick now that i have ever been, barring my first year away from those limestone bones. i wonder if it's crazy that i am literally counting down the days until my mother and my brother come to this city, come to my new home, my granite frame, covered with muscles shaped and developed over the past four years, built around heart ache, love [of all varieties], laughter, food, hard work, naps and music.

yes. i am fascinated with muscles. but maybe not just sinew and flesh. maybe soemthing more.