Tired/Move

I am very. I wake up early and coach the speech kids going to Nationals. I spent the weekend at Maf's--the first place I stayed when I moved here. I showed her the pine prickles in my hand from the cactus I hit that first Arizona day. The bumps remain.

I walk slowly and lay on the couch for too long plotting, re-plotting all the moving details. This much money, that email about the one job--waiting, cutting up the strawberries, too tired to pick a show on Hulu, tired. It's one-hundred all the time and I have no mode of transit. Bike--sold. Scooter--sold. I expected to cry when she was wheeled into that stranger's garage, but I didn't. There has been too much to do. I have been so slow in doing it.

Jerome, Arizona.

I'm tired, so tired.

Turn on the Lights

Slou's eye, Summer 2010

Sometimes I start to feel really slow, like my body parts are seeping from thing to thing. Sometimes, when I am in bed watching "Community" on Hulu and working on my list of grad school applications, I start to feel crazy. I'm moving slower than honey spilling down from a packet. I'm finding information after two million mouse clicks and five million thought pauses. Oh. So. Slow.

And then I leave, and I come back, and I turn on the lights. And POOF. I'm zooming. I'm finding answers, I'm scootin' around, I'm drinking water, I'm getting it together.

It's a weird thing like having greasy hair, when the lights are off I just don't function. It feels so good to have them on.

My grandmother lived with my family when I was in pre-school. There was a pretty strict "only natural light" rule in the room she spent most of her days. It hurt her eyes because she was blind. I could not. I could not.

Let us die young or let us live forever.