About a week ago I had to register in the SAM system for government contractors. Up to now I've been just a freelance independent contractor regularly contracted by the USDOJ in PR, and I liked that status. I was just me, an entity apart and separate from this increasingly insane paradigm that is my government. Registering and answering all the myriad questions (page after page after page) felt like taking off my clothing, piece by piece, until I was floating naked in the cold, the history of the years I've lived marked upon a body that no longer has the carefree beauty of youth. All up for inspection, for review.
Muscle tone: acceptable.
Body fat: increasing.
Skin tone: decreasing.
Height: lower than average.
Genitals: respectable but no need to call Guinness.
The same government that many years ago told me it wasn't interested in my services simply because of the gender of my prefered bedmates.
Annerving, to say the least.
We made space for
And I will not pretend otherwise just to appease your modern delicacy
Remember when you were in 8th grade and had a report or assignment due the next day at school? An assignment you knew about for weeks and you (of course) left it to the last minute. And it's 8:00 pm, and the feeling of "oh, I've got time" gets supplanted by the cold, sick feeling of "fuck me, it's getting late and I don't think I even have paper to write this thing on". And you start bargaining in your head and thinking of excuses to make. You do everything but actually start writing it because then that means acknowledging it and facing the situation you've created for yourself.
Lately that's how I feel about my WIP.
November 30, 2017
From a distance, the trees that survived the storm, which had seemed like platoons of bare popsicle sticks along the mountainside, have now grown strangely green. In an effort to survive they have sprouted dense layers of leaves along their trunks where leaves would typically never be found. I thought at first that it was surely just vines taking advantage of the cleared canopy - and in some cases it certainly is that - but the vast majority of it is the trees themselves making use of some hidden subroutine to stay alive. They look like dead branches under water, draped in algae, and I am a little fish hiding in the roots of the mangroves.
It feels much like I imagine it would be to live inside a river. The medium resists. There is a viscosity to communication and travel. One direction pushes you along; the other direction is a slog. Just staying in place requires an effort unknown to those creatures that inhabit the air. I am neither colorful nor flashy. I am small and brown and stout, but my fins are strong and I have learned the currents well. Here in my Caribbean river I swim with other stout brown fish amongst the strange green trees and we reminisce of our time on the land. We're not dead. Far from it. And for now we swim.
If you ask us to clean for you, and we do, be warned: You are the only person in the universe who thinks that crumpled brown paper bag in the corner is a filing system. When I throw it away because of your passive aggressive accusation that I don't clean our shared space, and I decide to do it as something nice for you, and there was something important in that crumpled brown paper bag in the corner, you have only yourself to blame.
Any sentence that you start with, "Look, all you have to do is..." is going to be ended by me with, "All you have to do is fuck off and not be such a fucking pig and then these things won't happen. How 'bout that?"
It will never change. Ever. As long as you stay then you have implicitly agreed to the arrangement. Seriously. It - will - not - ever - change.
Separate names with a comma.