Nuisance Tripping
10 months ago
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
New Essay Idea
For my Essay #3 I would like to build off of the blog in which we had to look into something hidden and write about it. I had looked in the basement and found the chest my grandfather made and found a made a connection with the chest and his sickness. I would like to make the theme of the Essay Impermanance and how life is fleeting, just as things are.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Blog 13: Clothing
She hides beneath the same golden yellow Orlando, Florida sweatshirt. Every time I see her she comes in, hair flying around as if she were just in a convertible; her gray hairs saluting me and bowing to the good deed she is about to practice. The sweatshirt has taken on a life of a lover, it coaxes her, reads to her, marinades her in her sorrow. Does it comfort her body in the night while she sleeps? Does she grab it when she returns from work and rub it on her skin like it has been calling her; offering her a new life. She lives in it like it is a home. She has not taken it off in years-- her shield. It is the size of a tent--she hides her body in it. I wonder if she were to cry if I stole it for the night? Does she have a name for it? The yellow wasp, the golden wheat, Rex Butler.
Her shoes are ragged and rough. They are like aching soldiers begging to be buried and claimed dead. What once were solid white lovers, are now decrepit antiques. They most smell when she takes them off and throws them into her closet, her garage, her car. Does she love the smell of her own foot fungus? Does it comfort it?
Her pants are black spandex. They are too big for her; just as the sweatshirt is.
You can barely see her legs move underneath the over-stretched over-sized spandex. She hides; the Golden Wheat, yellow wasp comes 3/4 down her thighs; she hides.
I watch her every week training in the same clothes. I see her aching in her loneliness like a rotting peach. Does her yellow sweatshirt touch her skin enough? I watch her move and laugh in her tent as if no one is watching, as if she is not carrying her home with her. I want to touch her and burn the sweatshirt.
Her shoes are ragged and rough. They are like aching soldiers begging to be buried and claimed dead. What once were solid white lovers, are now decrepit antiques. They most smell when she takes them off and throws them into her closet, her garage, her car. Does she love the smell of her own foot fungus? Does it comfort it?
Her pants are black spandex. They are too big for her; just as the sweatshirt is.
You can barely see her legs move underneath the over-stretched over-sized spandex. She hides; the Golden Wheat, yellow wasp comes 3/4 down her thighs; she hides.
I watch her every week training in the same clothes. I see her aching in her loneliness like a rotting peach. Does her yellow sweatshirt touch her skin enough? I watch her move and laugh in her tent as if no one is watching, as if she is not carrying her home with her. I want to touch her and burn the sweatshirt.
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