I'm back from Denver! Pictures to come. It was SUCH a wonderful trip. My butt hurts from hiking, my crotch hurts from biking, and my abs hurt from laughing. I wrote one of my poems while under the influence of a LOT of pink wine and did my yoga on the front lawn with my best friends and a leashed cat. We did all of the Denver things (hiking, breweries, trendy tattoo shops) and all of the sleepover things (Mean Girls, pizza, tacos), and all of The Brothel* things (Chambongs, cuddling, and velvet).
*The Brothel was the name of my house in college. Nine girls, one roof, a ginormous communal wardrobe.
Anyway. More on that soon.
For now, I'd like to say a few things about stream on consciousness writing. I have a love/hate with this style of writing, for while it can sometimes seem a little repetitive and thoughtless, I actually really love the release of emotions, and the spur-of-the-moment connection of ideas and images. Things that you didn't think would become symbols or metaphors suddenly are. Theme emerges. Stream of consciousness writing is a nice way to tap into the more mysterious parts of your brain, even if nothing more than to give that part a little bit louder of a voice.
I read Crown by Danez Zmith and bits of On the Road by Jack Kerouac for inspiration.
The baby took his hands off my chest.
The baby took his hands off my chest and looked down at them, and at the rest of my body before he left and came back to bring me the ice cream, which we ate in a haze of smoke so thick that we laughed, we howled like ghost wolves, like we were watching kittens fall off coffee tables. he put a ring pop on my finger and it was sour blue raspberry, so naturally I had to eat it.
The baby put his hands on my chest and his nose in my hair and smelled each strand as if it were a thread taken pulled from a rose under a microscope and then we lay on our sides, and we studied words, the alphabet soup that made up our skeletons, each bone fractured and broken because we wanted to pretend we were drummers, and we’d smash rainbow sprinkles under our baby fists and suck the pretty dust into our noses, and then there’d be the cream, round two and biting off the bottoms of cones, and then oh my goodness, two babies made a family, and what did we know about the home, or a new immigrant who ate more bread than there are stars, and who untucked itself from bed while we unstuck ourselves from the fire of a dirty kitchen.
The baby took his hands of my chest and I let him fall asleep and then stayed up for only five minutes before I watched the sun rise like a broken yolk.