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The Adrenaline Runs Quick When The Queen Enters

The deathly combination of the musical, the literary and wind-lashed night...

The deathly combination of the musical, the literary and wind-lashed night...

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my girl
I try to think back to when I first became aware of the ending, the passage, fragility pulsing, beating. It must have been with Chloe. Certainly, I had experienced loss before my first baby was born. Relationships had ended. My parents divorced. People I knew had been buried. A house I had lived in, fucked in, ate in had been demolished for a strip mall. My cousin blew his brains out when we were nineteen. I always remember him laughing, kissing me 12 or 13 in a sun-light dappled swimming pool, telling me I was beautiful. Ever charming and mine-- at least for the seemingly endless weeks of summer holidays together. You've been told the story before. It is one of my favourites.

I certainly felt dislocated, shock even at the house being torn down. I had spent a lot of time there with my highschool boyfriend. We played hedonistic house. Dramatic, emotional, we both delved into the extremes of every emotion. Perhaps a small list is in order: love, heat, I poked at my wrists, he threatened to kill himself, we were terrible at being estranged, presents given, spending every penny on eachother, road trips and shows and storming out to walk halfway across town (a big town, I suppose a small city) in frustration, having learned how a female should act from movies, how hard he fought for me to return was a measure of his love, telling secrets, being proud, being neglectful, hurting, throwing items and punches, despair, loneliness, theft, lies and young.

But I've gotten off-track and told you something you've already read. What I wanted to write about was the scary feeling that it had all been erased. The unease inside me as I drove by and sensed that an era was over. How I still see the house, how well I know it, though I can't remember the kitchen floor but remember the bedsheets and window curtains, how cruddy it was when we were there fucking and fucking and how Chris whipped it into immediate shape when my boyfriend moved out. I guess that kind of story has been told before but usually the main character goes away and returns. Then change is expected. When you return you know, or at least you know of, the possibility of things being wiped out. I didnt get a chance to leave and then it was gone.

Maybe it was the birth that decisively moved me along the generational ledge, the conveyor belt of life (and then only if one is very lucky and manages to side-step the perils, the freak moments that reach out and grab). I guess it must have been. I wasnt of the youngest, I was no longer a child, I was a mother, my mother a grandmother.

It's all going to end. I dont want to speed things up. But there are a few knowledges and secrets I will keep. Some shoddy practices you won't be privy to, not everything is for display, keep a few truths to myself. Easter is coming anyway, any excuse for a new beginning, an improvement.

I guess what I want to note is that I have a new hand-painted shower curtain. It is all white, the image the artist swirled out of deepest black is of an almost life-sized flapper. Other than lovely, she is nothing more than an representation of art deco, glamour. I also have a garment stand in my room. It is draped with hats, scarves and handbags, vintage jewelry boxes nestle on the inner shelves. The point is sometimes, when I blot water from my eyes, I am startled at her presence. It's a moment, a split, a heart beat skipped. Same with the stand. Occasionally, it is alive in my room when I am alone and my heart pauses until I register the facts of the matter.

My message is that when I am wispy, not much more than paper thin skin and memories, my eyes will be dim and shadowed things will dance.

There is a future to be seen, an ending rushes to brush against you, a foreshadowing kiss,

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