Secret Pop

Jun 19, 2003

Tea Leaves, Tossed Cards, and What They Portend

I am up late. Again. Scanning documents for my little sister. Going back and forth to the table to see if those photos I doused with red paint have managed to dry yet. It makes me cagey.

And I feel as if I have been under the spell of some paralytic tongue-tying device that has pressed me into silence against my will. The more I paint, the more the trickle of words seems to slow. Maybe I can only have one sort of idea at a time. I'm inclined to disagree, though, because it seems I have at least two things going on in my head at all times of the day, and one of them is the same idea that never leaves me. And I am often able to pretend I'm not thinking it at all.

Poetry comes in three-word phrases over the span of days. My journal entries have evolved into hieroglyphs. Even the expression on my face is hard to read. Even for me.

I didn't buy the green pants. They were too big. But the peachy pink ones behind them came home with me that day.