Day Four Of Operation: Befriend Ants.

When I get to class in the mornings I don’t stray farther than the two foot radius around my desk, and that only to deposit my book bag and take a solid, perfunctory glance around the room. Chalkboard, windows, door; this is my own little private universe, but the sun can be anywhere at all. I don’t know around what I revolve, but I do so willingly.

I am only ever truly tired the five minutes after I wake, but it is not until eleven thirty that I stop telling people I’m exhausted. It’s one of the few conversation openers I know, initiating the inevitable concurrent response, the cycle of shared sleep and lack thereof. “I’m tired.” “I’m tired too.” “How are you?” “Fine.” “Hello!” “Hi.” I am an automaton, I run through lists like names for hurricanes.

For the first time in a while, I hate living in Spain. It’s a feeling that lasts a maximum half hour, but I feel it poignantly, and I feel it absolutely. I can’t do intelligent or passionate discourse in Spanish, despite the fact that I’ve lived here for most of my life. All those who cannot express adoration nor ideals in their mother tongue are failures. On a discrete level in my private universe I am blind to the interpretation of the thoughts of other sentient beings. On a smaller level than even that, lying on the fringe of some dead supernova, I fear that I am blind to their love as well.

There is a sun, but it cannot be pinpointed. There are blue stars too, but they are visible only to those with proper equipment. The only element ever to be mapped here is ground zero, and I already know exactly where that is.

Comments (7)

  1. Michael wrote::

    “On a discrete level in my private universe I am blind to the interpretation of the thoughts of other sentient beings. On a smaller level than even that, lying on the fringe of some dead supernova, I fear that I am blind to their love as well.” Me too. Gorgeous piece of prose there.

    Em edit: Thank you Mike, that’s a lovely thing to say.

    Friday, September 24, 2010 at 11:19 pm #
  2. Jessica wrote::

    I thought I was the only person who could think of nothing too say; who could only go as far as saying, “This is nice weather we’re having…” and get the glares of her peers as they wonder why they let the deranged little girl with bows in her hair and flowers on her dresses out of the sanitarium.
    I think they should come up with a new word for ‘sanitarium’. I find it offensive. I feel like they are implying I should be sane but am not…’sani’tarium…if only the i was an e.

    How are people like you and I suppose to meet if we both have trouble making these things called words come out of our mouths. I wish everything was just written in pen. I could get by easily in that world. But no…people insist on making noises with their mouths. They should have a class in school for people who aren’t born with these necessary social skills.

    Em edit: Oh, these two paragraphs you’ve written make so much sense to me. I’d go to your no-social-skills class, definitely.

    Saturday, September 25, 2010 at 7:10 am #
  3. Maud wrote::

    what a lovely blog you have! i really love the layout, and your stark writing.

    Em edit: <3 How nice of you to say so! I really adore your blog, by the way. Your photographs are wonderful.

    Saturday, September 25, 2010 at 12:39 pm #
  4. Kait wrote::

    Oh Em, I am just so lonely lonely lonely – I could die. Reading your blog and drinking wild sweet orange tea helps just a little. I hope you are having a beautiful weekend.

    Em edit: Oh man, dear Kait. I’m crossing my fingers for you.

    Sunday, September 26, 2010 at 10:28 am #
  5. Michelle~ wrote::

    “I can’t do intelligent or passionate discourse in Spanish.” YES X1000000000000. Although I’m sure your Spanish is much, much, MUCH better than mine.

    Anyway, if you ever want to talk in English/pretend you’re not in Spain, I’m always up for grabbing some coffee or something.

    Em edit: Sure! I iz sending you e-mail now.

    Sunday, September 26, 2010 at 3:17 pm #
  6. “All those who cannot express adoration nor ideals in their mother tongue are failures.”

    … you mean… you mean, there’s, uh, there’s other options? huhbuhwuhhhhhhh

    I believe it was the poet Petrarch who – in the height of the prime of his prime – called a toast at the wedding of a foreign dignitary. He stood, wet his mouth with a spiced wine, and soberly announced: “Shit don’t fit, y’all.”

    … or something, I don’t know. Maybe it was some other jackass. (There was definitely a prerequisite of wine, though.)

    Shit, in fact, DON’T fit, madamoiselle. People clash and overlap and scrape, or slide off. This might be the fresh thirtypages of Kafka talking out of me, but you’re NOT gonna pinpoint any sun. You’re not gonna get much more than a glimmer of blue stars. Someone spilled their grapejuice, and now the jigsaw is soggy and swollen. Still, even if you got to mash the pieces a little, and even if the seams never quite smooth down, if you hold your head just right and scrinch your nose a little, you can get the general picture.

    Em edit: Well slap me silly and call me awkward, if you aren’t a picture perfect genius, Kylie Hammurabi, I don’t know what. Seriously. Thanks for that. This is the common sense I need.

    Tuesday, September 28, 2010 at 3:58 am #
  7. Nancy wrote::

    As poignant as ever. Glad to be reconnected. 🙂

    Sunday, October 3, 2010 at 1:32 pm #