madame zenobia's

but getting here was a trip. the first leg of my flight was delayed an hour in syracuse. the trip from pittsburg to st. louis was terrible. the temperature on the plane was too hot. the person i was sitting next to keep touching me. he continually crossed the divide between the two seats. and normally, i'm not petty about that stuff. i recognize that there isn't lots of room and that we all have to be patient. but i felt like he felt like he had a right to extra space. so i was hot and pissy. but i am here--safe with my family.

but, before that terrible pittsburg/st. louis trip, during my one hour in the syracuse airport, i read brokeback mountain by annie proulx. i know this sounds cliche, but i'll say it anyway: i couldn't stop reading. it's getting a lot of hype these days because the movie was recently released. (last i checked, it still wasn't showing in syracuse...now what's that about?) it was a marvelous short story, a welcomed break from the reading i've been doing for my exams. i don't want to write much about it because i'm trying to hold onto the magic. the last time i felt this way about a story was the green mile by stephen king. for whatever else folks may say about king, i think he's one of the greats at character development. at the conclusion of that book, i was so connected to those characters that i cried. cried because of what happened to john, cried because the story was over. i just cried. and, after all the books that i've read, the green mile was the first time i ever cried. isn't that something? i wonder why. and even after reading brokeback mountain, i didn't cry. i closed the book and sat there, looking out of the window, wanting the story to continue but aching for it to end. even as i type this entry, i take breaks to stare at the ceiling, hoping that my reaction to the book will come to me. there's sadness...but something else.

i'm haunted by a line from one of the characters:

"...i wish i knew how to quit you."

my translation: "i don't know how to be without you."

what does that mean to not be able to be without someone? something? it seems to me that that kind of pain stretches to the horizon, like the Wyoming sky. it bites like the winter wind and snow falling sideways. and, simultaneously, it is the sweet smell of broken grass. it is supple and strong. it is...

poem for the day

"Conditions XIV"
Essex Hemphill

You left me begging for things
most men thought they had below their belts.
I was reaching higher.
I could throw my legs up like satellites
but I knew I was fucking fallen angels.
I made them feel like demigods.
I believed my mission
to be a war zone duty:
don't create casualties,
heal them.
But I was the wounded
almost dead.
Helping the uninjured.
Men whose lusty hearts
weakened in the middle of the night
and brought them to tears, to their knees
for their former lovers.
They could look at me and tell
they did not want to endure
what beauty love scars give me.
So touch me now --
Hannibal, Toussaint.
I am a revolution without bloodshed.
I change the order of things
to suit my desperations.
You can raise your legs,
almost touch heaven.
I can be an angel,
falling.