I float as much as I possibly can in the 14 inches of warm water I have in the old claw footed tub. My body folds into a bow shape. My legs part open and my elbows fold behind my head. The daughter of the sea king may have stitched me into existence with her magic sewing needle, and now I float like flotsam. I close my eyes and let my head slowly sink into the bubbles.
When I talk about Jared to other people, one of the first and last things I announce is that he loves me and that I haven’t lied to the man. I feel at a deep level that only someone I’d have to trick would be this interested in a future with me. I don’t even notice I’m saying it until it’s out of my mouth. It floats above me in incense air and my mind trips over the sentence. I stumble back. Of course, I don’t lie to him. Of course, he loves me. He’s been with me for years. I’m moving in with him. We love each other. How long until I can stop qualifying my worthiness? No one else is doing it but me.
I’m reading five books at the moment; it’s something I haven’t attempted since college. I’m also taking classes online. I’m gonna learn how to pressure wash a house and the inside of a garage next week. I’ve scheduled shoots for this month and am discussing future dates in multiple states. Studio lights are being shipped to my house.
My girlfriend sends me pictures, texts, Snaps, and her voice across the miles, but I miss her deeply. the freedom to love without fear of a paralyzing trigger is bliss. Sometimes when I’m walking (listening to book #4: It by Stephen King) the air will shift and I think I smell her shampoo. My chest rises and falls and I hear the water compensate for my moment in the tub. I exhale loudly, imaging myself like Calvin in one of his baths. I picture myself blowing all the water out of the tub and Hobbes getting soaked in the corner of the bathroom. I slide back out of the water. My hair is streaming across my face. Because of my brilliant whale impersonation, the bulk of my thick locks parted beneath my nose. I laugh alone in the bathroom. the sound ricochets around me. I only hear responses in my mind.
Split will be on DVD soon, and I want to write about my feelings concerning the movie. I want to be vocal for those of us who aren’t. I’ve always been that girl, despite the many encouragements to maybe not be.
Stephen King delivered a beautiful death sentence to Little Georgie in the first few chapters of It. “…and George Denbrough knew no more.” The file of philosophy was pulled up in my mind, thinking about the concept of thinking and therefore being. When one knows no more, they cannot be. I felt I’d seen a gleam of gold among the silver.
For the first time since I lived on Poet’s Row in Cap Hill, I’m going to hang my Costa Rica keyholder. Vilma and my foster family gave it to me when I first arrived in their home, along with a stuffed monkey and beaded lizard bracelet I wore that bracelet every day until it broke off of my wrist. There was a hand-written sign in a quality of English that surpassed my Spanish welcoming me home.
I’m one and a half books away from the end of the Baudelaires’ dismal plight. I just realized that several of the orphans guardians have had the initials J.S. and am excited to see what that will come to mean. I can’t imagine it’s accidental.
Despite the burns I’ve received (and am still enduring by having my things held hostage) recently, I’m going to make lunch for Jared to take to work. He may take it as expected within the week, adding tips on how to better improve his eating habits without asking after my own, but I doubt it. He might start expecting me to cook all his meals, all the time, although it’s highly unlikely. Or he could become ungrateful and decide the efforts I make at home and for him personally aren’t worth respecting me or our relationship, but years of evidence does not support that theory. At an admittedly slight risk, I thrust myself forward into acting upon devotion.
The more news I watch, the more music I add to my “(Ani) For the Revolution” playlist on Spotify. I am ashamed to know so many people who still defend this fool, 45. I am plotting revenge via consciousness-raising movie nights. I’m waiting to hear back about training to be a clinic escort. I’ll be giving blood next week. I have to do what I can, or we stay with things like this. And this, this sad situation for immigrants and women, Muslims and Jews, trans folk and anyone who wants to have a planet in 100 years, is not acceptable.
In between the work of moving into the house and shifting Jared’s things, I’m listening to the Gang’s wackadoo schemes and wondering if Prezbo will stay on teaching. I’m slowly seeing friends. I’m trying to take extra time with Jared. There’s no rush. I’m here now, and we have time.
I stand up in the tub, pulling the white rubber plug from the drain with my toes. I reach for the bathrobe my aunt gave me the year I started healing. It was sea foam green originally but now is white. I wrap myself up. The robe engulfs me now compared to the size I was in college. Water drips from my purple, green, and gold colored toes onto the tiled floor where tiny puddles that reflect only steam form around my feet. I flip on the fan and open the door. The room is cleared almost immediately, the air itself having been too warm and looking for a breeze to ride down the hall to the living room.