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Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 17, 2006 || 4:01 pm

Precipice? Oh yeah.

Slept till seven. Actually six forty-eight. Got up and did three things: pee, drink a bottle of water, scrounged up some tax forms for Maxim.

Pretty pissed about being up so damned early on a fortunate Friday off, I went back to bed. Fitful sleep until nine. Also, guilty conscience: “Things to doooooo!” This would have been a day I’d've chosen for noonsleeping if not for that voice. Begrudgingly got up, rattled through the house; not happy, not sad. Drank hot lemonade, as my immune system refuses to get on board with my demands for its return to rights.

Did stuff. Drank more water. Did more stuff. Tess called. We made quasi-plans for a meal (comprised mostly of drinks) for Later On. Put on gym clothes, put hair in pigtails, shouldered gym bag, exited house.

Post office. There’s one clerk who is one of those people I enjoy seeing immensely. She is cute even in the shapeless post office uniform. The rest of those post office bitches can suck a dick. DICK, DICK, DICK. I don’t know why I take such immense delight in swearing; I just do.

Gymmmm, locker my bag, sunglasses and keys. Forgot lifting gloves, bottle of water and emmpeethree player are in bag. Am a little arsed by having to re-open the locker and forage for these things

(I love how the tenses in this narrative are all over the fucking map)

but get over it quickly. Set musicks up, thread myself with earbuds, stuff player and gloves into kangaroo pocket on hoody (Dear Jimmy’Z Surf Company, I heart your sportswear, thank you and amen), proceed outside to the big bank of windows where I always seat my water and stretch, strettttttch, stretch ten miles of leg ten ways to Sunday. Nothing quite so overwhelmingly satisfying as a good stretch –much less ten or twelve of vigorous ones– you know?

Select music: I am usually prone to Go Hard At It tunes while I’m working out, but today my soul says to me, “Easy; eaaaaasy, girl.” So no techno, no punk, no hardcore, no thunka-thunka of hard guitar and no aggressive vocals. No pumping backbeat or jangly bassline.

Walk five feet, decide not to fuck around, run. You are immediately all up in my head, expanding, unfolding, permeating, pushing, your brain blending into mine and why oh why can’t I mark the absolute delineation point where I stop and you begin? Runrunrunruuuuuun.

About the time I started hitting my stride, –you know, the place where you are not your body and click-click-click, the machine hums along, propelling you to chemically-induced-organically-produced freedom– my heart cracked in two, I stumbled a little, and the tears spilled out over my startled face: What just happened? They came out hot, but the day sends them cold down my windchilled cheeks. My brain registers the name of the song pushing past the membranes in my ears, ‘Please Do Not Let Me Go‘. Oh good, there is a bank of bushes, I let them envelop me. Seated behind them, elbows on knees, forearms a bridge for my forehead, I wept bitterly. The horrible and beautful red clay of this place is cold and soft-frozen and ultimately ends up cradling my cheek.

I picked myself up, forced myself forward, and for the next ninety minutes pushed every part of myself so hard that my face flamed the brightest of reds, my breath remained ragged as a constant and my jaggedy bangs stuck forlornly to my forehead and the sides of my face. Upon leaving, I was a skin-encased sack of deadweight as I climbed into my car, ravenous, tired, lightheaded.

But I had forgotten you (enough, anyway) for that hour-and-a-half.

My phone rang as I sat there in the seat. It was my mother, who said in her gorgeous voice, “Hi there, baby,” when I picked up. “Hi, momma,” I said back and fell into a sobbing mess.

I can’t wait until tomorrow, when I can again forget the missing of you is this difficult. Some days are just harder to get around it than others.

2 worked it out »

  1. PJ Harvey 11.18.2006

    We lean against railings

    Describing the colours

    And the smells of our homelands

    Acting like lovers

    How did we get here?

    To this point of living?

    I held my breath

    And you said something

    And I am doing nothing wrong

    Riding in your car

    Your radio playing

    We sing up to the eighth floor

    A rooftop, in Manhattan

    One in the morning

    When you said something

    That I’ve never forgotten

    When you said something

    That was really important

  2. Jettomatika 11.19.2006






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