Evolution

Evolution is not an inevitable march forward into perfection; it is an unending, unyielding, messy red. Like death, he visits us all. Like death, he is not cruel.

The current iteration of our world, our bodies, ourselves is the best it will ever be! The great bias of history.

We forget we are the next in the line of progression to be bumped off eventually and maybe we are the failed branch in the family tree. It is not for us to know. It will be those digging up the impressions of our bones on rock our names and dreams forgotten who decide.

rlb 5.20.17

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Historical Perspective

Ink bruises in high enough concentration turning the backs of pages brown and green. Bruises unhealed become sores when the skin sloughs off and, undrained, left wet and unclean, they rot. This is why I refuse to leave the desert content to live on the river with her shifting shores. Rivers are supposed to have banks not shores but here– landlocked and lake-fed heading west for the lowlands where she will attempt to fill the unfillable– there is a memory of the sea. We were beneath it once. Primordial salt floating beasts the likes of which only whales and immortal jellyfish remember. Whales and jellyfish and the desert.

rlb 5.17.17

Practicum

The Introvert Girl Gang is the first place anyone ever told me that running away is easier if you’re already going somewhere. This was something experience taught me but I’d never heard it said before and I almost cried at how much it explained. This  was why I shrank at the thought of vacations. This was why I hadn’t applied to more than one college — because that might mean not leaving but having to return home. Not that that’d made much difference. I went to college anyway. I ran away anyway.

A slow study in pressure. How much travel could I handle, how long could home escalate before I decided no more. It happened slow, bordering on silent, smothering magma-hot and black until I could see no horizon.

The summer I visited Mo is a blur.

Brian had been worse than ever and I had been living in a fog of flashbacks and ash. Nightmares about my teeth splitting apart in my mouth, falling flat against my rotting tongue followed me into the morning. I could always smell him and taste him and hear him breathing. Even at night the house wouldn’t quiet.

I visited Mo. I had nothing to lose.

Her mother was compassionate and rough and waited with me through panic and had no patience for my pretending at spinelessness. Her laugh was a balm for my nerves. She did not flinch at cutting away those dead things that no longer served a purpose. She was kind.

I simply could not leave again. The perfect excuse to carve out a place where I could breathe fresh air and madness and rain and remember that there is nothing quite like volcanic soil and rot for growing things.

It’s easier to run away when you’re already going somewhere. It’s easier to stay gone once you’ve planted something there.

rlb 5.9.17

medicine

In the morning I take the meds that keep me from killing myself and at night I take the meds that keep my body from killing me. Or to put it more accurately but more confusingly: in the morning I take a handful of pills that keep my brain from killing me and at night I take another handful of different pills to keep my brain from killing me. There’s no real way to differentiate between the two phrases.

As I so often complain: our language lacks nuance. There’s no way to put additional vowels or apostrophes or dashes in the middle of the phrase to indicate the body or mind of the subject, to differentiate between intent or accident behind the verb.

I’ve been reminded: I don’t deserve the luxury of this. I haven’t suffered enough to earn it.

That’s what they always tell me whenever I tell them I feel like a handful of graveyard dirt only useful for curses, to bury your dead, for leaving behind, for grief. No one notices that I, too, am asking the same question: How do i stop being so fucking sad? I don’t want to be this any more than you want me to be but here we are.

The first time i wanted to kill myself i was 7 years old. I think I even tried, made myself sick on water because I heard a woman’s stomach exploded in a radio drinking contest. They tell me that when you start that young it becomes reflex, a bad habit, a drug you return to time and again because you’re weak. I can’t help but think this is the gene pool’s way of filtering itself. That the last 15 years of calculating how many ibuprofen could cause liver failure, whether I could exsanguinate before mom came home from work and her husband sobered up, guessing how much weight my bootlaces and closet bar could hold, steeling myself to fall head-first from the roof of the house because the screen popped out, staring longingly down into traffic from the bridge over I-80 whose gate someone forgot to lock. This perpetuated itself into college, self-sustaining, the ultimate in renewable energy.

I knew girls braver than I who tried to die and I envied their ability to take control of themselves– and feared the backlash, the hatred they received for doing so. That’s why I never tried. I didn’t want to get caught, punished, sent away. I valued peace more than I valued control.

I’m still here.

A quiet pollutant on the surface of the pool the sort you inch to the side to avoid casting speckled shadows on the tiled sloping pool floor, a bit slick to the touch. Something of me robs off anyway, transfers through osmosis. A texture you wish you could wash away but can’t lose no matter how much hot water you use.

I suppose I have one up on the gene pool, though, since I don’t plan to reproduce. Now the trick is to stay alive.

rlb 4.4.17