Soon, Sumer will conceal what winter has revealed.

[parasitegirl]

This week I spoke to yet another voice from the past. Granted, he is still alive and will soon be in Japan for 48 hours; he exists not only in my past, but my present and future as well. He will be here and we will talk.AT this point we both need someone who knows us well enough to cut to the chase. He isn't doing well: I could be better. However, the symbiotic days of emotional highs and lows as oddly wrought lovers are in the past.

 

When it comes to the past it cannot be said that I pack light. That is an optical illusion...I pack tight. My memory is flawed but what is there is fecund. I don’t pack to entirely forget, for that task there are fires and dumpsters, I pack to make space for more. Yet when you pack, you always forget something.

 

After we spoke, and before I went to meet Wataguy and his high school buddy for drinks, I allowed myself to be overwhelmed by the images that started spilling from the twists of my brain.
 
The memories started with us dancing and go from there: I was younger, but not by much; he wanted to walk me home, but in my vain attempts to look sexy in heels I had shredded my feet beyond walking; there were four of us sitting by the water talking about Bonobos and books as a prelude; I wore a shirt too short and bra that clasp in front; he was inside of me; he told me of Fitzgerald’s wife. From there my mind spills backwards and forwards and all order is lost; I was his co-worker and I met his compliments with odd stares; we danced; I was alone in Japan listening to Cicadas and crying; he held me in an office in a Brooklyn school; we sat in a park in Singapore, a friend had died; I was in Singapore and I was not my self; I danced angry; I was in his bed and we were no longer lovers; we were Ueno park and his equation didn’t add up; he called me from Amsterdam, but when I returned to America I disappeared. The strangest images I find are those I never saw but spring forth from descriptions. He is naked under a window and people are here to see the apartment; he sees his first Ozu film; a girl he will later love climbs higher above him…I perform an emotional strip tease in reverse and then leave the stage.
 
It continued. And then I showered.
 
Was it his voice or was it my nature before spring? I am volatile right now.
 
March is the end before the beginnings. Soon the days will be light enough for me to regain my equilibrium. I have grown sloppy with my light box, relying primarily on exercise to keep me afloat, and my negligence leaves me a little tattered. When I look back on Marches past I cannot find the ability to say I am improving with each year- although I am improving - because to look at Marches past is overwhelming. Things break during March. I could give you a list, but it would be as vague as the one above to protect those who have been close to me. In March things fall apart, painful truths are unveiled, and things seem to come full circle…or to a full stop.
 
By the next time I dance, on the 26th, much of this will have passed. I will bike home one day and realize I am not drowsy, my limbs do not ache, and that this is how I feel over half of the year. Normal. Relatively.