the softly polar days

The tip of my nose never seems to warm up this time of year.

All I want next week is a chance to sit in a noisy bar with a bunch of people and have you listen to me talk over your pitcher (and my glass of wine?). I'd tell you personal things--bit by bit, like stretching gum out from between my teeth--you'd notice that my lower register has dropped, and probably after a glass of white, you'd point out a serious case of vocal fry. You'd probably also pull some loose bones from the skeletons in the shadowed corners--"Here's a femur," you'd say, matter-of-fact, point-blank, and hand it to me, quietly watching the expression on my face melt from shock to denial to pleading to acceptance, all without changing the wideness of my eyes and the openness of my mouth, before I'd softly utter, "Oh," then, "Yeah," then, "Thanks." Is it weird that my vocal coach is the one I want to see the most? You are the only one who's ever put me on the spot in the kind of uncomfortable way that makes me want to build a shrine at your feet later. I need to see me out of myself, and you're the one to take me there, if only for a brief window of time.

Denver looks like Bartók. Surprisingly so. More in profile than facing front, but maybe that's what made me tilt my head when the centurion first stepped onstage.

This will be the first Thanksgiving I will spend that is not with my mother, nor my mother's side of the family, nor my brother. On the one hand, I will see my father, for the first time, alone, on Thursday, and I won't have to keep drinking wine while my nana says things I don't agree with. On the other hand...there are certain things in my life that would label me a creature of habit, of comfort, and this will be strange. Different, and a different comfort, but still strange.

Cute Co-Worker, you would never sleep with me (probably), but after bedding Rocky, I am not underestimating the powers combined of my quick wit, sharpening flirtations, and, what I am told, my (moderate, my word) level of attractiveness. You've got one month. Take it or leave it. Do not toy with me.

I'm already listening to spring songs.

I reeeeeallly need to pick up my violin again.

Never have I ever wanted to do an undercut to my hair so badly, and never have I ever been more under the thumb of administration and unable to exercise it. The urge will just get worse.

But godDAMN, Bartók. Why wasn't I born seven years earlier? Curses.

There is a kid who makes me cry. He is lying about when he is doing his homework, and what tests he's taking for books, and he rarely settles down when he is supposed to be reading during his after-school time with me, but his smile and quick attitude suck me right in. I've never wanted to kiss a kid on the head before. I still don't want to give birth to and raise one, mind you all, but when did I feel so nurturing?

I know.

You need to stop. Stop being so real. Stop still being handsome. God. (I've realized that I really DO have a type: handsome.) Stop not talking to me. Talk to me. Try me. Try.

I drove up Mad River Road a couple of weeks ago on a sunny Sunday and thought the leaves would still be ablaze, but they'd all fallen off, and the trees were bare, and the sun was behind the hills, so I visited the cemetery on the way back instead. The sun shone rare, and there was a fire tree there, with wind chimes, shading a few gravestones--what a place to rest. Beauty in death.

Speaking of rest, school is killing me. Stretching me thin, every hour by every lost hour of sleep.

I know.