one

journal # june one

Couldn’t stand you but
the weather was
fine

I was under it when we got home
and the heart seated in the center
of the bloody thing
making it go

Organized chaos and classified a mess
your up style had gone down
the eggs scrambled
mostly whites the yolks fell
outta fashion

Couldn’t stand it
i mean together

The coffee was too
white i mean
mixed
up with what the cows
gave

I think it all started
i mean ended
in 1992

the one-two -i)

She was a plain looking young woman; hazel eyes, brown hair, age twenty. She had a finite memory, the limits of which were self-imposed. On one side the limit prevented her from remembering anything that ever happened to her before age five. That was the age something good happened. She could not tell you what happened before, only that it was bad. She became loved at age five, and ever since. She was an avid reader, and particularly loved anything by Dostoyevsky. She preferred brown paper bags to plastic, at the grocery store. They reminded her of going to the grocery store with her father, as a child. After her mother died drunk behind the wheel in a late-night backroad collision with another drunk driver, coming home from the apartment of her lover. Just before she turned five. She remembered carrying a brown bag in her arms, and the sound and smell of the paper. Following her dad to the car. Age five. A plain brown bag crumpling, but secure in her arms.

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He was a dark-haired young man, with a cut and a part in his hair like William Butler Yeats, portrait of an artist. He had a smart way of talking, walking, thinking, responding. But was naive to love. He had a family history of bipolar. There was also a family history of running away, but this was only known by interstate records of relocations. He was twenty-five. He was ambitious to a fault. Job promotions and self-glorification would always have to come before anything else. These successes could be shared, so long as whomever shared them decided to forego anything that would get in the way of them. His mother had died young in Calcutta, of self-sacrifice. He had no Indian in his blood. He missed his mother. His memory of her was the only thing that got in the way of his uncanny ability to drown everything out and focus his clear mind on his unparallelled effort to succeed. He used to read, and preferred Tolstoy to Dostoyevsky.

to be continued…

Katya Mills, 08/13