Apoidea Level

06.04.2009

“We were seventeen again togetherrrr”

I sang this all the way home.
When I was seventeen, I was a lot of things. I was laying sleepless by my open window, scribbling in the dark humidity. I was in the lake with no pants on and stumbling daily into seminary with my bowl of cereal. There is actually a disclaimer line in my journal, 09/23/2004: "Mom, if you're readin this-- nobody saw me on land without jeans on." I was finding.

Lately, I keep seeing stages of women and wondering What was I like when I was like you?

Today:
“My friends call me KaitKait.” 10 years old.
We’re trying to get to Costco in her Mom’s big suburban as I talk to her about social categories.

What did I long for eleven years ago?

I search out my mind: Gymnastics. Playing football with foxy Tyson Stewart. A tie-dye pink-orange dress. Secret Clubs. Grilled cheese with Mamaw at midnight. Passing notes. Ace of Base.

We continue down unfamiliar roads and Kait points the way. I know she is growing over there next to me, and I want to be a part of it. I think I’ve always done this—this arguably overeager approach.
“I’ll just relentlessly love you until you love me back,” I once said.
This is my natural flow.

* * * * *

"And there was that law of life
So cruel, and so just...
that one must GROW
or else pay more for remaining the same."
--Norman Mailer

* * * * *

05.25.2009
Last night I was standin on Dave Smith’s porch. Everywhere: there was rain. Across the street, a ponytailed foreign man strutted rhythmically down the sidewalk. The chain on his baggy black shorts rattled in time with his mumbled cry. I catch “This is my land!” and “I had it all before...”

Someone from our group glances over. “What’s that guy doing?”
“I think he’s just yelling for whoever wants to listen,” Dave says.
Emily laughs and says she doesn’t want to listen.
We laugh too, confused at him, and I think---

WHAT IF THE RAIN WERE A TRIGGER FOR THIS TOWN?
What if every time it poured , we were driven to the streets...
saying aloud (allowed) all that we keep to ourselves.

Imagine the shameless howls of liberated college students:

“I kissed a boy in your yard last night while you were sleepin through the stormmmm!”
“All day I’ve positioned my face to hide this gnarly zit from you.”
“I’m worried my brother may never come to church again.”
“I wake up every 3 hours for a protein shake because I wish I were 50 pounds heavier, Tongan, and dang foxy.”
“I haven’t read my scriptures in two months.”
“If I do not ask her out tonight, I may cease to be a man.”
“Last night in the pool, I sorta forgot you weren’t my missionary…”
“Before I found out about your secret girlfriend, I was hoping you’d come home for Christmas with me.”
“I work out behind fat people to stay motivated.”
“I know she wants to marry me, but I’m hoping it won’t come up.”
“When the radio breaks, I freestyle in the car to pass the time, and to feel LEGIT.”

When the thunder rolls, brace your bones.

The truth falls forth and covers everyone in real, wet colors.

My Secret: I’m dyin for a day like this.

* * * * *

06.03.2009
Today I walked into Nanny job #2-- It was just me in the house. They’re on vacation and as I’m vacuuming the Great Room, I come upon 75 dead bees. They sprawl out by the tall windows, the potted plants, and the hardwood floor. Why? From where? I catch my breath.
I am fascinated, morbidly connected to their obscure presence. Something in my stomach pulses at my discovery. I lay on my stomach, and look over the brown expanse of wood paneling. Each lay alone in its exhausted death. The one near my nose is propped vertically on one wing and its stinger, as if it died watching. Watching the yellow dust waft around in the light… wishing to drift as the pollen he once lived to carry. How curious to have lived in the air: a home within the intangible.
I feel as though I’ve walked in on a secret— ½ sacred, ½ haunted. I am an intruder on these bodies that caused wild flowers to breathe, and tame humans to run in fear. A few in the middle lay on their sides, faces curled in—--like they slept into the end. Each expired wing points to a different mystery.Somewhere, a body still buzzes.

* * * * *
05.25.2009
I write about myself relentlessly because I have to figure out who I am. I have to VIEW MYSELF. Because if I don't, it's over. I will never see you. I will never see the cicadas under the lightning in my stormy North Carolina. I will never find the compass or the microscope or the right place to burn them and I will never, never be a writer.