Crossing.
She stands midway through the overpass bike bath in that sort of cloudless yellow sky that oppresses late afternoon. Behind her, cars send a choppy wind across her back, and with the nonstop rush of tires on pavement -- if she closed her eyes -- she could imagine she was at the beach. He taught her that, once upon a time, on those nights when sleep was rattled by the sound of the freeway through her window. "Just picture the waves breaking the shore..." and it was true.
The fingers of her left hand, wrapped through the chain link, are going numb as she stares at the bisecting vehicles rushing by below. Right eye focuses and cars spill forth from her abdomen; left eye focuses and they painlessly crash into her. Unfocused eyes and she senses that she is conduit, and nothing is in the fiberglass metal cells but her own will and being. A vertigo of circulation courses through her, and she feels like every car, from every direction, sweeps her body back and forth with the velocity of transit, and again she is in the ocean.
She has never excelled in math. In college, she took Statistics for a 'Pass' -- too scared of the stacks of hieroglyphic numbers. Like a proper conscientious and educated women, she listens to her NPR, and it learns her well. Her Guardian and BBC news keep her fat on information and an unspoken hedonism in pretension. And so, in all, she knows a bit about statistics.
Left eye focuses, she breathes ten times, and estimates that twenty-five people have driven by wondering when they'll find a job. One wonders where he went. Fifteen wonder when they will love again. Eight wonder why s/he did it. Three wonder 'Who?' A breath and ten people sing; mariachi, pop, hip-hop. Two sing something they wouldn't want their friends to catch them singing. She blinks one eye and counts two and knows a rapist has passed between her legs. Ten people in poverty, eight in fear of deportation, and two on the run. Seventeen with unpaid library fees. Thirty-five with no library card. Twelve who cannot read. Twenty men thinking about sex, but not with their wives. Eight thinking about fucking, but not with their mistresses. A bead of sweat licks her, temple to chin, and some son cries about a lost mother. A muscle spasms in her leg, and some mother remembers the too-soon burial of her son. By the time she kicks off on her bike, someone who did not say "I love you," before work this morning will slide past her into an an unforeseen nightmare; an endless expanse of locked land. By the time her left foot hits the pedal, someone has broken her path who will say "I love you" before work someday, with no intention of coming home.
She admits to herself she doesn't know shit about statistics, but 100% wonders how anyone gets behind the wheel, with so much potential to breakdown.
She stands midway through the overpass bike bath in that sort of cloudless yellow sky that oppresses late afternoon. Behind her, cars send a choppy wind across her back, and with the nonstop rush of tires on pavement -- if she closed her eyes -- she could imagine she was at the beach. He taught her that, once upon a time, on those nights when sleep was rattled by the sound of the freeway through her window. "Just picture the waves breaking the shore..." and it was true.
The fingers of her left hand, wrapped through the chain link, are going numb as she stares at the bisecting vehicles rushing by below. Right eye focuses and cars spill forth from her abdomen; left eye focuses and they painlessly crash into her. Unfocused eyes and she senses that she is conduit, and nothing is in the fiberglass metal cells but her own will and being. A vertigo of circulation courses through her, and she feels like every car, from every direction, sweeps her body back and forth with the velocity of transit, and again she is in the ocean.
She has never excelled in math. In college, she took Statistics for a 'Pass' -- too scared of the stacks of hieroglyphic numbers. Like a proper conscientious and educated women, she listens to her NPR, and it learns her well. Her Guardian and BBC news keep her fat on information and an unspoken hedonism in pretension. And so, in all, she knows a bit about statistics.
Left eye focuses, she breathes ten times, and estimates that twenty-five people have driven by wondering when they'll find a job. One wonders where he went. Fifteen wonder when they will love again. Eight wonder why s/he did it. Three wonder 'Who?' A breath and ten people sing; mariachi, pop, hip-hop. Two sing something they wouldn't want their friends to catch them singing. She blinks one eye and counts two and knows a rapist has passed between her legs. Ten people in poverty, eight in fear of deportation, and two on the run. Seventeen with unpaid library fees. Thirty-five with no library card. Twelve who cannot read. Twenty men thinking about sex, but not with their wives. Eight thinking about fucking, but not with their mistresses. A bead of sweat licks her, temple to chin, and some son cries about a lost mother. A muscle spasms in her leg, and some mother remembers the too-soon burial of her son. By the time she kicks off on her bike, someone who did not say "I love you," before work this morning will slide past her into an an unforeseen nightmare; an endless expanse of locked land. By the time her left foot hits the pedal, someone has broken her path who will say "I love you" before work someday, with no intention of coming home.
She admits to herself she doesn't know shit about statistics, but 100% wonders how anyone gets behind the wheel, with so much potential to breakdown.
VIEW 12 of 12 COMMENTS
thistle:
Stomachs are such rubbish. As far as anyone can tell I have gnarly acid reflux. I hope yours gets figured out. Three cheers for having some form of health insurance.
thistle:
Antacids make it so I can eat without feeling the food crawling back up my throat for hours. However, they also make it so it takes 3 times as long for food to get digested. My doctor is pretty responsive but I am lazy and have no car and the office is far from work. So I don't follow up on things.