{mzunga.}

we sat in a large but mostly empty apartment on the west side. the fourth story. there were seven of us. and half were visitors from out of town. i smoked out the window, while biz markie played for the room of white folks behind me. to the right of me. apart from the music it was mostly quiet. soft spoken, slurred speech. everyone seemed considerably more intoxicated than myself. glassy-eyed and lackadaisical. but i was a bit tottied up myself. i probably should not have driven. but i did so there's no excuses now. just luck. i wore a black dress with little polka dots. once again not in the mood for much of anything except my own thoughts. or maybe dealing with this social interaction in a different way than the rest. maybe just tired. still wearing my apron and work shirt.

in my left ear are disintegration loops. in the right is a voice that i had saved about a week ago in order to listen to later. because i thought it might be nice to hear again. if i felt so inclined. which i do. this make me feel silly, and kind of stupid. i worry. i worry about these thoughts that i have. and those distractions. i've been told it's alright to be distracted, to focus attention of other things. otherwise, what would life be, without these distractions. we would probably just think we were dying all the time. (as my tongue shifts in my mouth, presenting me with some strange obtrusion, which is probably just my jaw bone, but of course i have to look at it in the mirror and see if i can determine whether or not it has tumoristic [not a word] properties. as though i would know.) but i worry. it's what i do. and i would like to quit. be careful. full of care.

i am sitting in the coffee shop, which i enjoy. they give me apples, oranges, cookies, and dried mango bits for free every time i leave. i don't talk with anyone. they must just like me for some reason. or they are simply kind. i come here almost everyday. the man behind the counter must be cooking onions, because my eyes are beginning to burn a little. the windows are fogged. i look forward to sitting here in summer time. when the windows are open and the air is more substantial. thick and humid. in a sundress, i will be glazed in pleasant sweat. and enjoy the cool, nightly showers before bed. falling asleep with the windows open. waking to the ruckus of the bright day. riding my bike.

sometimes people have loud personal conversations in quiet public places. i always wonder why they do that. lately i've been especially quiet during day and night. i don't much feel like talking. i don't have much to say. it's hard for me to tell whether or not this is a wise venture. i tend to become so consumed by my own thoughts. i get very unnerved. for as long as i can remember my mother has said to me, "you think too much." before, i had thought that this was a good thing. that it made me more an intellectual. more a thinker and therefor more inclined to make great things and be interesting. i don't think like that anymore. and anyway, i am far more a feeler than a thinker anyway. and for as long as i can remember my dad would say to me, "get a hold of your emotions. don't let them drag you all around." and i would think to myself that being emotional was good because it made me aware of myself and where i stood in certain situations. it helped make life more definitive, in a sense. i was a more passionate person if i became very emotional about things. i don't think like that anymore. i'm all caught up. i've snagged so many parts of myself on everything, to the point were i am pretty tattered. there's no elastic in me. i am one hundred percent cotton. but i was given a sewing machine for christmas. and have been doing quite a bit of mending. sometimes the pockets still fall out, from me shoving my fists into them, when it gets too cold out here in ohio.

i sat outside again. in the soft grey, muted light and evening air, smoking a cigarette. listening to william basinski. a young, asian man walks down the sidewalk toward me. he is wearing a grey t-shirt, and walks briskly. his coat is draped across his left arm, and the right arm waves gracefully to-and-fro as he approaches, as though he is playing the violin. his fingers pinched, gripping an imaginary bow. his head tilted slightly back. maybe he is practicing, i think. but his dancing arm glides perfectly in tune with what i hear in my headphones. the woman across the street, parallel to him, stares at his aloof gestures. i stare at him. and as he passes, i smile at him kindly, in a state of gratitude. he doesn't see me. he shouldn't see me.