[lorifornia]

Be vicious.

Say the thing

Rip it a part

Be the one who ruins their day

[lorifornia]

[lorifornia]

Cara cara oranges are back in stock at Costco.

I am pleased.

This has been an update. x

[lorifornia]

There have been moments I knew were important, where I’d pause and tell myself to hold onto this perfection for as long as possible. I didn’t take any pictures, I didn’t jot down any notes. I just took an imprint with my mind.

So now, I can visit these moments anytime I want. I’ve noticed time makes me more forgiving, and thoughts have a way of softening the rough edges.

What may have only been 5 or 10 seconds of handholding in a car on a sunny day, wearing a dress that exposed too much of my thigh, feeling the warmth of the sun. The windows down, strands of my hair touching my face, slipping on my lips as I laughed, leaves of the country road making shadows on my brown soft thighs. These 5 or 10 seconds, we can linger there for as long and as often as we’d like.

[lorifornia]

There is no atonement when there is no confession. He looked at me as if he’d known what I’d been doing with what was between my legs.

I stole a book once, I thought it was heroic and counterculture of me. I wrote in the margins all the stupid little thoughts in my head.

Confessions drip off my fingers and collect in puddles on the ground, disappearing with the heat of the day.

I belive my mother is with God and one day I hope to meet them both.

[lorifornia]

Happiness like sun sprinkling in through bamboo leaves.

[lorifornia]

I’m not here, this isn’t happening.

[lorifornia]

Apples and oranges hang from the family clothesline, papa says mama has finally lost her mind. He shakes his head and spits on the ground, dust rises and settles. His spit makes a heart shape and we wonder what he’s gonna do next.

We know better than to meet his gaze. His hands are making tight fists and we know we should leave.

I asked Mama when do I know I become a woman. I ask if it’s when I get married and she shakes her head, I ask what about when I have babies of my own, she shakes her head again. I can tell I’m annoying her and she stops washing the pan for a moment. Without looking at me she says, “You know you’re a woman when you start accepting other people’s pain as your own. When you keep your loved ones secrets. When you hold back and stay, not out of love but out of duty. When things larger than yourself compel you to do the right thing even if it costs your happiness. When the wants and needs of others become your wants and needs. When I is dissolved like a sugar cube in boiling water.”

[lorifornia]

Notes to my mother

My mother said to hurry

fall in love quickly

Have a baby and then have another

She wrote me a letter and said you won’t know until it’s too late

Please hurry up

I ignored her of course, the way a good daughter always does

Now each month those drops of red blood remind me how Hope leaves us,

Slowly and permanently

Over and over agian I get to practice

My body is no home for anyone

[lorifornia]

He said I was perfect and that’s how wrong he got it.

Perfect he said while he traced my face with his finger.

Perfect he said while he kissed down my spine.

And I didn’t say anything because when a child finds a piece of glass and mistakes it for a diamond, you don’t ruin the afternoon with things as harsh as the truth.

[lorifornia]

Take more.

What’s left.

Take the skin, it will keep you warm.

Take the hair, it will make a soft pillow.

Use my hands to finish building your home.

Take the marrow and make a soup. Nourish yourself, I don’t need it anymore.

Use my words they don’t sound right in my mouth anymore.

Throw the eyes away.

Bury the heart, it never worked right anyway.

[lorifornia]

I wrote for you and you used to read me.

You’d tell me how good I was, how perfect, how beautiful. You’d hold me and quote me and I thought I’d die.

I don’t think you read me anymore. You know me too well.

You look at me and you see all these mistakes. The clumsiness, the mediocrity.

I don’t write for you anymore. I write in the dark. Love letters to myself. Little notes to find my way back to myself.

“You’re going to want to say yes. Say no.” Scribbled on napkins and shoved under couch cushions.

“He’s going to say he loves you and offer you coffee. Ask for tea instead.” Written in marker on the bottom of a coffee can.

I don’t think we get second or third chances but if we do, I’ll do better next time.

“He’ll ask you to stay. Don’t.” Written with my finger on the bathroom mirror after a hot shower.

[lorifornia]

In his story, she was his first love, the one that got away, his soulmate. He stared at her while she sat across from him.

“I can’t help but stare at you, you’re so beautiful.” If anyone else had said this to her, it would have felt like a line. But there he was, older with thinning hair, staring at her and on the verge of telling her he loved her.

She shifted in her seat. He hadn’t changed at all.

He talked about the past and she nodded.

“I wish we’d had a baby together.” He says this quietly. The steak tartare halfway finished.

“You would be such a good mom.”

The tartare red and glistening from the egg yoke.

“We would have such beautiful babies.”

The egg yoke running down the side.

She smiles and asks about work.

She wants to throw her water in his face. Stab his hand with a fork. Tell him she never loved him and if she’d gotten pregnant she would have had an abortion. She wants to tell him that the first time they fucked, when he was telling her how much he loved her, she was already thinking about how she could break up with him.

She smiles and nods. Asks him questions that make him think they’re making a connection.

She thinks about the baby socks hidden in the back of her underwear drawer. The baby blanket in the linen closet, wrapped in yellow tissue paper. The baby shampoo and baby lotion kit with the little rubber ducky that’s in the bathroom cabinet.

[lorifornia]

[lorifornia]

“I’m going to kill myself.”When someone says this, you’re going to want to ask them, “Why?” 

A better question is, “How?”

If they say tomorrow they’re going to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge and they live in Brooklyn. You’ll want to say, “Doesn’t Brooklyn have a bridge?” But don’t.You might want to say, “Well you know the Golden Gate Bridge, it’s not even Golden. It’s red.” But don’t.

Instead ask them if they have any pets or get them to talk about a childhood pet. This is a call for help, they want you to give them a reason. A reason to live. In trauma training, they tell you, every person has a reason to live and when that’s gone, well you know, so is the person. 

Some people like to say, “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” 

Want to distract someone from suicidal thoughts? Tell them to name every object or thing around them. Tell them to recite the alphabet backwards. Tell them to hold a piece of ice and don’t make any decisions until the ice has completely melted, and if you still want to kill yourself, grab another ice cube. 

All you need is one reason. One reason to stay.

[lorifornia]

“If you can’t fix it, you have to stand it.”

- Annie Proulx

[lorifornia]

If you’re good, I’ll love you.

He put his hand over hers and kissed her forehead. She looked forward and focused on relaxing her face. He gently held her hand while he drove them to dinner. She talked about things that didn’t matter, but with a tone that was pleasant and comforting.

She thought about the second job she was getting and about how exhausted she was from the first job.

She thought about how much sleep she could get if she took a shower at night and had her clothes ironed and ready for work the next day.

She thought about the empty bank account.

She thought about the taxes due in April that felt closer than they should.

She thought about her daily headaches and the way her eyes watered in the morning.

She thought about the baby, the lack of a baby.

And she planned when she’d cry by herself. She’d curl up with her little dog and cry. Then she’d go on with her day. And if he happened to notice she’d say her allergies are terrible this time of year. She’d ask how work was and he would say it was ok even if it wasn’t.

And this is how we live with our wounds, our hopes, disappointments and weariness.

She felt empty and happy.