Thursday, January 08, 2009

Like clockwork comes a wave of restless, of smash-everything, of dye my hair black and change my name to Lola and move to South America to run guns and whittle tiny elephant figurines with a little pink pocket knife. Too much time stationary and sickly and turning in the same tight circles. Not enough explosions.

In Alice in Wonderland she jumps down the rabbit hole without, so they say, ever "once considering how in the world she was going to get out again." Which sounds like a fine idea, and I keep giving that a shot, except that these rabbit holes keep turning out to be badger dens, not down just out and to dead ends and piles of dirt. Maybe badgers are so grumpy because they're looking for rabbit holes and finding only more dirt too. Right now I'm worried less about how to get out once I find one and more about how to get in in the first place. None of these heels are punching through the right layers of soil.

I liked the satisfying crunch of my snowboots through the icy snow of the last few weeks, the struggle and concentration involved with not falling. I like the feel of throwing just to hear things break. Everything is slowing down just when I wanted it to speed up, and I never have been patient enough for all of this waiting.

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