so, here are the "I am so excited!" parts:
1. I got a box from moooom today!!! the outside was polka-dotted and the inside was a song in the middle of a desert. It was such a sweet piece of today.
2. I MADE GOOD PASTA!!!! FROM SCRATCH! I guess that item should be in a list by itself: "whoah. did I really do that? that's amazing!"
seriously, guys, I can't cook to save my life so the fact that a) I didn't burn anything (like the house) and b) it tasted GOOD! are both pretty incredible by themselves.
There is no sound when Marian wakes up with her forehead on the table. She doesn’t disturb the moon-curved shape of her spine that sprouts from the junction of her hipbones, resting against the longitude of the oak chair, up to the first chapter of her skull.
The uneven table legs wobbled when the weight of her dreams changed shape, and the vibrations from her nightmares shook the room until the glass of water danced to the edge of the table and dived all the way down to the floorboards. It shattered and every mouse scattered; now Marian owns a small lake-puddle.
She is awake, still her eyes stay closed and she stares at the table through transparent eyelids. Oxygen molecules continue to be recycled, leaving a faint imprint a few centimeters below her lower lip.
The table knows everything about Marian; in his skeleton there are eight hundred and sixty-seven bruises that she has inflicted; his red linoleum belly carries her name, branded in the corner where her right palm bleeds perspiration the width of a quarter. He has measured her hands several times. They are smaller than her mother’s and grandmother’s hands, with distinct knuckles and joints and a thin white scar running up the inside of her index finger. He admires her hands and so does she. When Marian punches the keys of her typewriter she watches closely while her skin reveals the muscles and bones that make each finger tighten and release. She likes the shape of bones, the ones in her own body, and the ones she notices inside everyone else.
Noise refuses to perforate the navy silence that is swimming around the apartment. Marian's ears begin to ache and she is fully awake now, still alone with a mouse in the kitchen. He shifts his ears in her direction: he is familiar with her still frame. He begins to gnaw on something sharp, and she worries that it might be her ankle bone, but her brain is unable to sever itself from the cool comfort of her favorite animation.
“Es la una y media.” Her voice isn’t loud enough to reach her own ears but the mouse hears each syllable as a bell and a chime and pauses for three seconds to find Marian’s bell tower. It is still buried, but by now his optimism has expired and he runs around the shores of the new Great Lake, a conductor on his own track headed East.
He disappears and Marian’s eyeballs surface above the floral pattern on the sleeves belonging to her dress. Where each pupil used to be there is a button with four holes and when the weather is nice each one lets in a silky strand of sunlight.
I almost left without posting a picture, but I couldn't do it. So, here is my favorite other Josie: the goddess of comedy, Josie Long.
