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Being the logical person that I am, I never took to astrology, though I managed to find myself in the arms of many a man who took it as seriously as the weather report. Out of my oft-lauded tolerance, I listened to **** explain to me in great depth what my sign entailed and what I (unbeknownst to me!) want out of life. Thanks to his lessons, I now have a general idea what this whole “Leo” thing is about, though this new knowledge did little to convince me of astrology’s legitimacy, thus negating the knowledge.
But lately I have met a barage of patrons who insist upon knowing me by nothing else, as if knowing my birthday is the key to KNOWING ALL. I have grown used to the question and have refrained from lying because fucking with people’s minds is just wrong on general principal, but today, I discovered that the birthday is not the only indicator of astrological signature.
He approached the counter, looked at my face, started, then said something to the effect of, “Your eyes! Virgo?”
Which left me with the new found fear that astrological fanatics more observant than he have the ability to deduce my sign without even knowing my birthday. While I was wondering what the fuck my eyes had to do with Virgo, I answered, “No. Do you… want some coffee? Tea?”
“You’re not a Virgo?”
“No.”
“That’s funny.”
We stared at each other in silence. I was searching his face for some insight into his prescription. The audacity it takes to inform a total stranger of their personality traits and personal quirks. To stab at the dark by the light of someone else’s eyes.
As if on cue, a co-worker flipping through a magazine walked in and asked me loudly, “You’re a Leo right? Do you want to hear your destiny?”
“Actually, apparently I’m a Virgo.”
The man across the counter squinted at my eyes as if there was something he had missed, and I wanted to tell him that far from my time of birth, he had missed a lot of things.
[I wrote these for a series to appear in a poetry book to be published in the near future. Details on this book's availability will be revealed once I know what to tell you.]
1. Crossing 50th and 3rd on October 15th 2006. Suddenly incandescently happy.
2. The rocks at the bottom of the pool sparkle gold at sunrise. The muscles of his back capture the groves of the sun. The temperature of the water doesn’t even matter.
3. My true love in unconsciously heartless. I cannot sit still- I cannot sleep. I move only in restless hate.
4. The pulsing power of costly, foreign horsepower roars beneath me. The man driving smiles and moves closer. I am unmoved.
5. This is the scene: Shelby’s diabetic attack. I am Shelby; the audience nonchalant while I shake uncontrollably and spill orange juice on the stage floor.
6. “I feel like this has happened before.” “It has,” he said. “And it will again.”
7. Honolulu is wet with rain. Three of us walk to the water and watch the moon rise and sailors flood the shore.
8. The stretch of salt flats on the way home is a foggy wasteland. I told him “I’m not tired at all.” I drive through the fog and he sleeps on my shoulder.
9. Dancing alone on a dusty green carpet to a tremulous violin. I am caught – I am high – the leap! The fall… searing pain through my ankle while the music soars on without me.
10. I have a window seat this time. Too much of my young life has been spent on planes. The chassis shakes as we leave the runway and I think, “Here we go again.”
11. At 2 a.m. I get off work. My black pencil skirt wrinkled; my heels flaming torture. The new bartender follows me home. He kisses me by surprise. I let him.
12. Oh! I is such a relief to cry. The wound in my heretofore guarded core rake me with guilt. I cry and cry as I never have before.
13. While walking home one night after school, I realized I don’t believe in god. The stars were bright and everything was clear.
14. We fuck as if we choreographed this before; all passion perfectly synchronized. But his mind remains a mystery to me.
15. My heart is racing; body starving; no desire for food – feeling pitifully beautiful. Now I understand.
16. Lingering around Greenwich village, I cling to the people migrating from lounge to lounge. All of us are homeless. Our facade: designer dresses and lips red with wine.
17. A hallway filled with lights. A small finger – mine – points overheard. The shoulders carrying me are strong. This is my first memory.
18. Cigarettes and coffee – the two of us laughing. “Before this,” he said, “When I was ten they brought you home from the hospital. I held you first.”
19. Sleeping still into the afternoon, I guiltily burrow deeper drifting in and out of dreams until the sun sets.
20. This death is different. This death unexpected; initiated by unfathomable pain. I hold his hand through the funeral, staring ahead. I only see fire.
I have a bad habit of promising my presence at social gatherings when my presence should probably be caste in loneliness in front of a computer screen hashing out my thesis on Self Reliance.
This next gathering however is easily justified despite the portfolio due tomorrow. A good friend of mine has been frantically painting for the last week, pausing momentarily only to dip cookies in milk and talk to his mentor at the tap house. So he’s been busting his ass, and I cannot in good consciousness tell him, “Your art show sounds fascinating, but I have (cough) really important stuff going on. Stuff that rhymes with dinals and involves my GPA, aka “The Decider.” So, just, you know, put on another one sometime and I’ll be sure to show.”
THE PROBLEM lies in my timetable. If the timetable was a can of 7up, it would self-combust. I’ve resigned to staying up all night.
Praise be to his noodly appendage for landing me a job in a coffee house where caffeine is readily abundant.
(Must admit that I have surpassed a healthy tolerance level for espresso. I’ve taken to just snacking on the beans straight, and sometimes I sneak the left-over grinds in the back room, line them up on a bar stool and snort them.)
I hope to see you in the morning.
