Luck

I am not wearing any of it; I am green all over....

I am not wearing any of it; I am green all over. I don’t remember the last time my hair was past my shoulders. When I see a windmill or a wind chime I wonder what kinds of sounds I produce when filtered through space. I learn that Anne Frank’s dream was to be a writer — she says so in her diary — though this may be obvious to some. I cry the whole tour which could have been a subconscious act of self absorption. The water pump makes a guttural yet whirring noise when we shower, and the birds often talk. I wake up to them, yelling at each other. Maybe they’re singing love songs to coax me out of bed, make me romanticize the act of it. The rain has held off for the most part; the children jump on a trampoline. I see them through the shrubbery, and hear them that way, too. One of them imitates a dog that’s barking from the other side of the courtyard. (The dog I can see because there are no shrubs in front of it.) I realize that one’s method of making animal noises isn’t indicative of the language they speak but of their attitude towards said animal. I’ve hardly slept and I could blame that on the jet lag or cigarettes I’m not addicted to, the ones I use as night lights. I fear I’ve stayed inside too much. I play it like Alfred Hitchcock: I gaze through windows anonymous to my anonymity. I want more than what my body can contain. It’s so big I don’t even know what to call it.